


Fools Gold

by imperfectkreis



Series: Tate [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Infidelity, Knifeplay, M/M, Miscarriage, Multi, Slavery, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2747876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuing adventures of Butch and Tate. Rather than endure harassment from the Brotherhood of Steel, the two head west, where Butch takes an unfortunate bullet to the head. Courier!Butch and Companion!Tate. Out of order, they should work as one-shots, same deal as "Unbelievers" basically, but set in the Mojave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wheels Break (Butch/Tate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no explicit content this chapter, some mention of unspecified mental illness

"Doesn't matter how many times I gotta do this, you never make it easy," Butch huffed and went about unpacking his kit. Sharp little objects he had collected across the Wastes, things easily set aside when a better alternative presented itself. He may have been attached to Toothpick, but all the scissors and fine-toothed combs, those were just unsentimental tools. When a better tool presented itself, wasn't worth fretting over the old one. Just store or toss it and move on.

"Thought you liked it hard, Butch." The Lone Wanderer moved again, unable to settle in his seat. Too comfortable, as if that were really a thing. Couldn't get used to this sort of luxury after all this time. Seemed unnatural. Too much like the Vault, like home. He still missed it, would always.

With everything laid out in the proper order, Butch pulled Tate up by the front of his shirt, causing him to come crashing into his chest. They'd done this so many times before that both knew this was only foreplay. Sure, it was practical too, Tate didn't ask anyone else to cut his hair and Butch sure as shit didn't want anyone else touching his friend. Even though he wanted to trust, it was a hard time coming after all the shit they had gone through. Tate with his wandering eyes and hands and cock.

Butch raised up on the balls of his feet and kissed down, trying to make himself bigger, more imposing. He didn't know if it worked, trying to make the most out of only a couple of inches difference, but from the way Tate moaned back into his mouth, maybe it had worked.

"Come on, I'm gonna wash your hair first."

"Mmmm but I want to get to the good part." Tate's bare hands creeped their way into The back pockets of Butch's jeans. He pushed their hips together and held Butch in place, but it was already getting too warm for comfort. Too much with the clothes and the dry air.

"Fuck, Tate, it ain't like we're still eighteen."

"Did it a lot more at twenty, though."

"Sure, I still wanna wash your hair. Been awhile since we had this much fresh water. Kind of reminds me of..."

"Home, me too." Tate left it ambiguous which "home" he meant. It was the Vault he meant, though. Always the Vault. Still felt weird that they would die above ground. Fuck, that Butch already had.

Butch marched him to the bathroom where another chair had already been set up against the sink. All the fixtures were bright, metallic, without the creeping dust that seemed to get into everything.

"Are you sure you don't want me to bleach it? Your roots are pretty long." Running his fingers through Tate's hair, Butch pulled a little, exposing the inches of black that had grown in during the last couple of months.

"Yeah," Tate licked over his dry lips, out of nervousness more than anything else, that creeping guilt that wouldn't leave. "Doesn't seem fair since you..." He touched Butch back, running his hand over the short crop of hair that Butch had managed to grow back. It was better now, a little.

When Butch woke up it had been shaved down to the skin. And he had always been so fussy about it too. Tate liked that Butch was fussy about his hair, didn't know his friend to be any other way. Mostly, he liked that something could still be constant, unchanging. So more than the quiet, mature acceptance that Butch normally displayed when it came to his unwanted, shaved head, Tate liked when he caught him staring in the mirror, touching the short strands that had started coming back in.

"You need to stop punishing yourself for that. Sit." He tossed Tate into the chair and reached for the little bottle of shampoo on the counter. Spilling nearly the whole thing into his hand, he worked it through Tate's bi-color hair. It was entirely too much product, wasteful. But there were lots of these little bottles lying around and Butch enjoyed the texture of the suds mixed with Tate's silky hair between his fingers.

Tate stared up at Butch's body leaning over him, his mind occasionally going elsewhere, the way Butch would sometimes pull his hair and bite his neck. The way Tate would pull his neck and bite Butch's face. When Butch's cheeks would turn apple-red from exertion and Tate felt like he could literally eat him up. Weird thoughts he kept to himself. Maybe Butch wouldn't understand, although if he hadn't left by now, and he fucking hadn't, that was for sure, then nothing was about to scare DeLoria off.

"It should have been me."

"No, it was just bad luck. We were both on that list."

The water through the taps was clear and warm, washed the shampoo away and left Tate a soaked mess. Well, Butch would get him cleaned up, trim the ends. Nothing too dramatic, he liked Tate's hair sort of long and he suspected Tate didn't ever care about the length, only that Butch was touching him. Used to care about the color. Apparently not so much now. Not with things this different. He let Tate towel his hair half-dry himself, only enough that he wouldn't be dripping onto the floor as Butch worked.

"All the bad shit is supposed to happen to me though, right?" Tate tried to make it sound like a joke.

"Oh no, Tate Zhang is no longer the center of the fucking universe! Can it Nosebleed and let me cut."

"Sorry that I'd take a fucking bullet for you, dickhead."

"You've done enough." Clamping his jaw, Butch started cutting. Still let his fingers linger too long against Tate's skin as he trimmed in short snips, comparing length from one side to another as he went. "It's going to look stupid. I should dye it all black, then."

"Nah, just let it grow out."

"Fine, you're the one who's gonna look stupid."

This was something Tate just couldn't let go. They hadn't talked about it, really talked about what happened. Months that had moved too fast without time to breathe. It was a bad memory they had already lived through once and he didn't want to do it again. He wouldn't believe Butch would want to either. Of course it was too much to hope for that the damn world would leave them alone.

But right now Butch's fingers were warm against his scalp. The snip, snip of the scissors followed Tate's thoughts like a comforting heartbeat that might as well have been the real thing when Butch was involved.

"Done."

Tate brushed the clipped hair off of his shirt and stood. In the mirror he could see just the barest hint of forming wrinkles. Twenty-three was too young for that, but then again it had been nineteen years of easy and four of devastatingly hard. He didn't bother to look at his hair, because he had never really cared about that, only that it was a good excuse before they were fucking to get Butch to touch him. Now they were just creatures of habit. Though with Butch's hair frustratingly short, and his own roots deliberately left, maybe they were changing.

"If you had died," Tate spoke to himself in the mirror as much as he was speaking back to Butch, "I would have burnt this whole fucking place to the ground."

"Yeah, I believe it." Butch did, because he wasn't dumb enough to think that Tate being slightly less of a wackjob meant that he was all the way with it now. If he had died, well, if there was an afterlife, he would have spent it trying to intercede on Tate's behalf, like some fucking guardian angel or some shit. Because he would always love Tate, even when the world couldn't overlook the things he had done. Things they had done.

Standing behind Tate, Butch wrapped his arms around his husband's waist, pulling his back against his stomach. They were both warm. The water still in Tate's hair kept his neck slightly wet and Butch kissed him just there. He tasted clean, normal, despite everything.

Any moment now this could all fall apart again. Like it did when Tate's dad bolted from the Vault. Like it did when the Brotherhood wouldn't take no for an answer. Like when Butch took those bullets to the head and got buried above Goodsprings.

"Hey!" Cass' voice carried through the suite. The door slammed behind her. "We need the Courier. As in, right now."

At first Tate tensed, could feel Butch tensing too. Too many titles floating around, none of which fit the reality, only some sort of strange narrative they only ever felt loosely connected to. "You should go, I guess."

"It's probably just some bullshit."

"That's all it ever is."

"Courier!"

Butch squeezed Tate's hip before turning to find out what the fuck was wrong now.


	2. These Words I Hear (unrequited Arcade/Butch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unreciprocated Arcade/Butch, implied Butch/Tate, masturbation, fantasy

Lots of people came through the Fort, for all sorts of reasons. Well, that wasn't true. Most of them were uninteresting addicts who were a) looking for their next dose of Fixer, b) looking to fleece some of the less experienced doctors of other, more recreational meds or c) getting patched up from some stupid shit they did while high. Yep, those tended to be the ailments to which the Followers attended, so it didn't bother Arcade one damn bit that he didn't see patients. 

It also meant when something different walked through the gates, everyone tended to notice. Himself included. When that something different was wandering around the encampment, shirtless, scars cutting across his chest and down to the waistband of his leather armor, Arcade really noticed. 

Arcade could have conjured poetic thoughts about the pleasures of youth being wasted on the young. But he just wasn't that much of a romantic. The man with dark, over-gelled hair and a Pipboy on his wrist had a physique that would have been envied by many and archived by few. Even in the prime of Arcade's posturing youth, he hadn't looked remotely like that. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, smirked when Julie spoke to him, and had eyes like blue glass. Three hours he hung around before leaving, hadn't said a word directly to Arcade.

Sure the guy looked good, provided an easy distraction from unbroken hours of monotonous tasks. Arcade would have put caps down that was all there was ever going to be about it. Besides, the Pipboy had unnerved him. Wasn't a whole lot of tech like that floating around, and when it was, it was attached to those with suspect allegiances.

He went back to crushing broc flowers.

The second time the brunet came through, Arcade heard whispers of "Courier," a title that was tossed around quite a bit as of late. Courier or not, he'd brought supplies for Julie to make more Fixer, like all they ever needed was fucking Fixer. Managed to remember to wear a shirt too. Arcade wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not.

Julie asked Arcade if he could help carry the supplies back to the tents, and that he should take anything he needed for his research. Some apology for giving him a grunt's task. 

"Hey, I remember you from last time?" The Courier's accent was off, something Arcade hadn't heard before. No, he had, only in recordings, though.

"Maybe, maybe not. I've got one of those faces," he shrugged the implication off.

"Nah man, you're fucking tall. That's what I remember."

Arcade directed him with a tilt of the head to where to stow the boxes. His hair had changed, shaved real short, suited him better.

"And you didn't have a shirt."

The Courier laughed. "Nah, I had one, but my friend's got shredded, I gave mine to him. I'm Butch." He offered his hand once it was free.

"That's one way of putting it." What a ridiculous name. Okay, ‘Arcade’ might have been a little strange, but it had a certain charm. ‘Butch’ was completely without charm, coarse. It only took a few minutes to realize Butch lived up to his name.

"Man, you don't have to slight a guy. That's cold," he looked genuinely miffed that Arcade had mocked him. 

"Sorry, sorry. Not much of a people person." Arcade offered his own hand as a truce. 

They shook. Butch's hands were riddled with more scars than absolutely necessary for someone so young.

"Me neither. I always fuck it up, ya know?"

"Yeah," Arcade let himself smile a little. "I know."

There wasn't much else to chat about once the boxes were put away. Butch didn't offer up any more information and Arcade didn't ask. Oh, he had questions, that was for sure. Everyone had questions for the Courier, and Arcade didn't like everyone.

On his way out, Butch was stopped at least twice by people clearly seeking the Courier's favor. He stuck his hands in his pockets and sort of sheepishly replied, though Arcade was out of earshot. When he lost interest in his pockets, Butch started smoking. Before too long a blond with a laser rifle slung over his shoulder came out of one of the tents. Butch's whole face lit up when the blond emerged. They exchanged the rifle and the blond managed to shake off the admirers with a few words. After that they were gone.

This time Arcade did dwell on the handsome visitor, on this "Butch," "the Courier." His companion had worn a Pipboy too, and that laser rifle. It was all very suspicious. Arcade wasn't a vain enough man to think they were after him, but they were after something.

Didn't stop him from thinking about the cut across Butch's torso, the one that ran from just below his nipple, diagonally across his abdomen, and must have ended somewhere below his belt. Thought a little about what Butch would have looked like without the belt, or the pants. Spent a little more time thinking about what he'd look like on his hands and knees in the dirt, dropping curses like prayers. It wasn't anything in particular about the Courier, only that he didn't look like roadkill and Arcade was a bit of a sucker for blue eyes. Didn't mean anything.

Butch came through again, weeks later. The white tshirt he wore was drenched in sweat and a smile on his face. Said it was a good day. Arcade had no idea why Butch had come to his tent, of all places. Smelled awful, that was for sure. Well maybe not that awful, but normally the tent didn't feel so cramped. Sitting on the table where Arcade was trying to work, Butch asked what he was working on and drank messily from a bottle of water. Spilled down his chin and onto his already soaked shirt.

Instead of answering, Arcade posed another question as a reply.

"What are you doing here?"

"Bored, Farkas said you're some sort of researcher? I dunno, I like science."

Arcade flipped through the pages of a particularly large text without reading a word of it. "I doubt that to be true."

"Fuck man," Butch hopped off the table, smashing his feet into the dirt. "Why does everyone say that?"

The Courier had the flap of the tent up and left without Arcade interceding. Maybe he was only trying to be nice, but that wasn't usually the way the world worked. Arcade wasn't going to lie to himself though, he liked watching Butch leave.

Thought about Butch on his back, curling his hands in clean sheets, breathing out Arcade's name with his unfamiliar accent. About the muscles of his calves pressed against Arcade's shoulders. Whining, coming apart.

More news about the Courier came. Rumor said he had been to the Tops, stirred up quite a bit of trouble there. A certain casino proprietor had gone suspiciously missing. Not like anyone missed him, not in the slightest. The next day Butch was beating against the gates, screaming to be let in and after someone named "Tate."

"Fucking, fuck fuck!"

"I told you, Butch, he's not here." Julie's voice was measured, calm. She wasn't much of the mothering type, that was one of the things Arcade liked about her, but she had a pretty good ‘you're in trouble young man,’ air about her.

"I don't know where the fuck else he'd go. That fucker, I'll kill him," Butch gnashed his teeth together and fiddled with the Pipboy at his wrist. "I'll kill him!" Turning abruptly, Butch smashed his fist into the nearest wall of the Fort. In a space filled with doctors, everyone could tell he had broken his hand. The crunching sound of bone on bone was a dead giveaway.

"Shit, shit." He clutched his wrist and started staggering away.

"Wait, you can't go out like that." Arcade should have known well enough to leave alone. Only he was a bit of a sucker. Or maybe because Butch’s blue eyes looked on the verge of tears.

Clearly the Courier was some sort of ticking time bomb. Of course, that's not what everyone else said. The way the stories went, he was some sort of Wasteland angel. Though, maybe they were right and Arcade wrong. He surely had only seen some of Butch's words, they had seen his actions, the way he helped people.

Nope, Arcade was certainly right and the world wrong. That was usually how things went.

"I can go however I fucking want." But he looked down at his wrist, still clutched in his good hand, he let out a little whine and some of the fight left him. "Fine, make it quick."

Butch followed in silence, like the scolded child he was, all the way back to Arcade's tent.

"Sit, I'll get you fixed."

Arcade didn't ask any questions, but Butch started talking anyway.

"I hate that fucker. I hate him so much. You're not hiding him, are you?"

"I don't even know who you're talking about." Arcade went about pulling materials for splinting and healing Butch's wrist.

"Tate, you know, my friend? The blond I'm always here with."

It took some time to develop a tactful answer. Arcade couldn't very well say 'sorry, generally when you're here I'm temporarily too distracted by your chest and hips to think other human beings exist on the planet.'

"I didn't meet him." His hands went to work with very little help from his brain. 

"Well, he's a shithead," the way Butch's voice tailed off made it clear enough there was more. "He's such a fuckup. But I love him, so ya know?"

Arcade tensed a little, but continued on wrapping. His reaction didn’t go unnoticed. 

"You ain't like, homophobic are you? Disgusted to be helping me now?"

"Errr, no Butch, not like that." If only he could work faster. There was always the option of doing a half-assed job, but Arcade’s pride wouldn’t let him. "I know."

"Aw, man, there really should be like, a handshake or something. I thought I was better at figuring this shit out. Fuck."

Arcade laughed at that, loosening up a little. Though, that could have been just what Butch wanted. The whole thing still didn't sit well with him. "Does this friend, Tate, know? How you feel about him?"

"He sure as shit should," Butch raised up his uninjured left hand. There was a gold band on his ring finger. "He's my no good piece of shit husband. Fuck. He thought he was doing me a fucking favor. Like he's gotta be some sort of hero still."

Instead of looking at Butch's face, Arcade focused on the tobacco stains under his nails.

"We came out West so he didn't have to be that person anymore. And now I got caught up in this shit."

'Out West', not 'back West.' So they weren't from California. And they sure as shit weren't tribal. And the Legion wouldn't carry so much tech. How far East would one have to travel?

"And of course, he can't think of any other better ideas than to go behind my back and try and seduce the guy who shot me. Fucking hell, of course that was his plan. That's always his fucking plan."

Arcade thought it wise to keep his mouth shut.

"It wasn't supposed to go this way..."

The screen on Butch's Pipboy lit up. Green. Most of the units Arcade had managed to see in the Mojave, and they were a scant few, were amber. Butch's expression softened as he read.

"I gotta go. Tate's waiting for me."

"Okay, I just need to inject the stim." Arcade held Butch's bandaged hand, turning it over so he could slide the needle in.

"Thanks, Doc. You're a real credit to your profession."

If Butch thought that were the case, he'd hate to run into any other doctors the Courier had ever known.


	3. Reckless Games (Butch/M!LW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butch wakes up after the whole getting shot in the head business.

"Woah, hey now. Easy there!"

Unfamiliar voice. Unfamiliar smells. A coppery taste in his mouth, but not quite that of blood. Stronger, like a penny. Like literal metal shoved down his gullet.

"Wasn't sure when you were gonna wake up." An older man with a white mustache and very little hair came into focus. His hands rested on his knees and his head was cocked to one side, appraising his patient. “Good to see you awake.”

Patient. Doctor.

Butch pressed his hand against the side of his head. Bandages wound tightly all the way around. Fuck. Fuck. The package and the man in the checkered coat. Looked Butch right in the eye before shooting him, because he was no fink. But why? The package, what the fuck was it?

"How about we start with your name?"

The package. No. Fucking trap.

Sitting up in the bed, Butch pulled up his arm, but it was too light. His left wrist was naked, the Pipboy gone. He could feel it though, like a phantom limb.

"Where the fuck is my Pipboy?" Butch swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head still felt light, but he could fight a fucking old as shit man. That was for fucking sure. Might have had to do it on his hands and knees, but he would fucking do it.

"Woah there fella. I got it over here." He stood and crossed the room to an oversized metal desk covered in little experiments and thick stacks of paper, pair of eyeglasses.

The windows were open. It was bright outside. Butch needed his Pipboy.

"So about that name. I'm Mitchell, Doc Mitchell is quite fine with me."

Not until the old man passed his Pipboy over did Butch even consider his request. "Butch DeLoria."

He winched slightly, partly from the bioseal cinching around his wrist and partly because it occurred to him too late that maybe he should have lied. Anyone really could have been with them, The Brotherhood. But this man and presumably pulled him out of that grave and showing him the slightest hint of decency was probably warranted. And they hadn’t seen a damn sign of the Brotherhood of Steel since they passed through Chicago.

"Well, Butch DeLoria, what's your number?"

"What?"

With the Pipboy sealed to him, the lights flickered back on, drawing power. Streams of messages came across the screen. Dozens, maybe hundreds. All from one address.

130758.

Angry messages, scared ones, desperation and fear.

"Where am I?" Fuck did his head hurt. More than hurt, felt weirdly empty.

"Goodsprings, son. And I was asking after your vault number. Haven't seen a Pipboy like that one, though." Before then Butch hadn’t noticed that Mitchell wore one as well. Different model, same concept.

271257 > 130758: im ok. in goodsprings  
271257 > 130758: you need to come to me

"How you know that, old man?" Butch kept his eyes trained on the screen, waiting for Tate's acknowledgement. Besides, Butch could guess at the old man’s answer.

"I crawled out of 21 few years back. You sort of recognize that in folks. And you know, the Pipboy and all."

He scanned through eight days of messages as fast as he could manage. Lots of repeats, some that looked like Tate had just smashed his fingers into random streams of letter and numbers and symbols.

130758 > 271257: Fuck, I'm coming. If I run straight through I'll be there by tomorrow morning  
130758 > 271257: I love you

"And how the fuck did my Pipboy come off in the first damn place." Knowing Tate was enroute, Butch hazarded to look away from the screen, appraising the doctor. He was still itching to get out of bed, but also smart enough to know he couldn't handle it yet, at least not without assistance.

271257 > 130758: be careful. they got you too? i love you

"Bioseal auto-releases when the wearer dies," Mitchell's tone dropped.

"I ain't dumb, I know that. Why does everyone think I'm stupid? That's the only way they come off." It did take Butch a moment. "Oh." He sank back against the thin pillow.

"Well, you're back among the living now, Butch DeLoria. Though in my professional opinion you've got a few days before you're back on your feet. Patched you up best I could though after that robot dug you up."

"A robot?" He didn’t recall any robot.

"Victor. Strange contraption. Never took much of an interest in anyone before. But right saved your life."

"Do you know anything about the men who shot me?"

"Can't say I do. But you could try asking Victor. Maybe Trudy too up at the saloon. She'd know all the gossip. Now, why don't we see if we can get you on your feet a little? Nothing too strenuous.”

Mitchell offered his hand to help Butch up. He accepted, despite reservations. Hurt his pride, though, to need the help.

"One-oh-one," Butch drawled. Out of habit he reached for his pocket looking for smokes. But, of course, he wasn’t in his armor, just a tshirt and boxershorts that sure as hell weren’t his. Great.

"Can’t say I know that one." The old man smiled.

"Good." Damn he needed that cigarette.

Over the course of the afternoon Butch managed a small circle of the house, at least to the kitchen for a light meal and back. Smoked half a pack while the doctor ambled around. Warned him ‘those things’ll kill you.’ Like Butch didn’t know. Like he hadn’t already been dead once.

Good enough to be able to piss on his own. Made the fucking mistake of looking in the mirror. But he wasn’t some dumb kid anymore. Let the sob choke up in his throat and die there. Lots worse had happened to him than getting his damn head shaved. He’d known it when he’d touched the bandage, could feel it without his hands too, how his head was lighter. How he couldn’t feel the strands settling around like they did before he styled it, the way it used to move as he tossed his head back and forth. But seeing it was another matter. Lucky enough his skull was back in one piece. Still, he ran his fingers along his bandaged temple, up to the crown of his head. Short bristles of barely-there growth and nothing more. Swallowed again and again until his hands finally held steady.

Course, had to be that the hair on his face grew faster than that on his head. So while there was only the barest hint of dark fuzz on his scalp, his facial hair had already started growing in jet black and thick. It had only been eight days since he and Tate split up outside of Primm with their assignments from the Mojave Express. A day of travel and seven days out cold because of some asshole taking shit that wasn’t his. Didn’t look at all like himself, bald head and a fucking beard. Wasn’t his look, that was for sure.

Butch’s shave kit was back by the sickbed with the rest of his belongings. Fuckers only took the package. Getting back to bed alone felt too distant and his head too cloudy. Might have ended up cutting himself in the process had he tried to shave. And that was the best case scenario if he actually managed to make it back to the bathroom. All he managed in the end was to splash his face with water and amble back to bed. Tried to blot out his own reflection from his mind. It wouldn’t go though.

Doc told him it should be fine to sleep if that was what felt right. The worst of it should have been over.

He dreamt about that pile of ash. Sweet and powdery. The one he made back in the Capital. Before it was ash it was that hot-shot rookie from the Brotherhood with not enough sense in him. Fucker thought he was gonna be the one to convince Tate to join up when all the others had failed. Was gonna do it by force when Tate spat in his face. Butch wasn’t about to let that happen. Wasn’t going to let anyone lay a hand on Tate. Never again. Irony, right? Killing that fuck with a weapon taken from the Brotherhood’s own requisitions. They’d lost his rifle somewhere in the midwest. Thing was practically coming apart at the seams.

Another gun, this time pointed at him, on his knees in the dirt. Gripped by a checkered coat. Hands bound. He should have fought harder. Had he screamed?

A heavy weight beside him woke Butch with a start.

“Butch,” Tate. “Fuck, Butch.”

This time the room was dark. No light through the blinds other than the neon from the saloon. Tate must have traveled faster than he thought, or the distance wasn’t as far. Even in the low light Butch could make out the sweat clinging to Tate’s skin in a thin sheen. Telling Tate’s irises apart from his pupils was hard enough in the light, impossible in the dark. Just black wells that still looked rattled in any case.

“What..”

Butch didn’t let Tate finish his question. Didn’t care. Pulled him down sharply by the front of his armor and kissed him with too much teeth. Always something too hard. Something reassuring that Tate felt the same, tasted the same. After Tate's coma, he said nothing tasted the same. Told Butch he tasted sweeter than ever and beer was shitty.

It took some maneuvering to fit both of them in the single bed. They'd had worse, though. Tate slotted his legs around Butch's, pressing their bodies together and resting his head against Butch's shoulder and chest.

"Butch, your hair."

Not Butch, why you got that bandage on your head? Why couldn't we meet half way, Butch? What kind of fuckery did you get yourself into now, Butch? Once you’re better I’m gonna kill you, Butch! Those statements would have been expected. But not the sad way Tate asked after his hair.

Tate's armor was ripped at the shoulder, jagged and uneven. The whole sleeve was barely holding on. There was no mistaking the work of a ripper. They'd seen plenty of the Legion's handiwork crossing through on their way West. Under the armor he was bandaged up, crudely. Butch knew the signs that Tate had "doctored" himself.

Butch touched the hole in the armor, right down to the bandage. Poked it until Tate outwardly expressed pain, hissing in response.

"Wake the doctor. He'll fix you."

"Not yet." Tate settled back down.

Tate's armor smelled like blood. His hair too. Butch curled his arm around him and put his fingers in his hair, gripping onto it and holding the blond in place.

"Someone shot you, not Legion, then?" Tate questioned.

"No. Maybe, I don't know."

"Never saw one with a gun in Arizona." Tate's words were half-buried in Butch's chest. But they had spoken enough like this for Butch to make out the syllables.

"But they got you too?"

"Barely. But this shit is fucked."

Butch laughed at that, "I agree. I wonder what happened to the others on that job?"

”I don’t give a fuck,” Tate growled.

Using both hands to roll Butch over onto his back, Tate’s intent was clear enough. He shifted his legs around Butch’s torso until he straddled the brunet. Totally unfair since he was still in his leather armor and Butch was outright vulnerable. With his weight shifted onto his legs, Tate’s hands were free to run over Butch’s body, first his chest, his arms. Didn’t touch his face at first. Seemed to be avoiding it. Just ran his hands everywhere else and kept his eyes locked with Butch’s.

“You missed me?” One hand settled on the top of Butch’s left thigh. Tate’s thumb moved in little circular motions, almost there.

“Nah, of course not,” Butch smiled.

With his other hand, Tate finally touched Butch’s face. Not the bandage, though. Nor where his hair used to be. But his chin, his cheeks. Spaces where Butch’s facial hair had grown in.

“Prickly.”

Butch turned his head to the side to kiss Tate’s palm, scraping it in the process.

“Yeah, yeah, I look like shit.”

“Didn’t say that, you ass.” He smeared the saliva on his palm against Butch’s face as retribution.

“Thought it, though. You shallow bitch. Or maybe you’re just jealous cause you can’t grow a beard?”

“Shut the fuck up or I won’t suck your dick.” Promises, promises.

The old man was probably still asleep. And down the hall. Probably closed his door too. Even if none of those things were true, they’d probably still go through with this. Also, they had practiced being quiet. Still a work in progress, though.

Tate didn’t even bother to get him out of his borrowed boxers, just pulled the waistband down over Butch’s erection. Room was warm, getting warmer even though the sun was long gone. Never really seemed to get cold in the Mojave. Getting to the end of October and still felt as warm as August.

Didn’t really waste much time after that. Tate got all curled up between Butch’s spread legs and swallowed him down. Bobbed his head and dug in his fingers against Butch’s hips, trying to keep him pinned against the mattress. With the angle all Butch could really see was his husband’s blond head and the tops of his shoulders as he worked the fly on his armor. Too much work holding his head up, as nice as the view was, and Butch settled back and closed his eyes.

Maybe he should have forced Tate to talk. To acknowledge that he had died, would have stayed dead. Not that he just that he’d lost his hair. They’d run across the country to get out of the never-ending bullshit of the Capital and instead Tate’d got torn up by Legion fucks and he’d taken a bullet to the brain.

But he had been complicit in changing the subject too. Used Tate’s clever mouth for kissing instead of explaining. Now was letting him use it on his cock in sure sucking motions, making the knot of un-expelled anxiety curl and release in his stomach.

Butch tried to forget about piles of ash and laser rifles. Tried to forget about checkered coats and a 9mm.

Almost could with those wet lips working him and that damn purring noise Tate made in the back of his throat just against the head of his cock. Focused instead on that and the rhythm of Tate’s left hand as he mastrubated himself, squeezing and pulling and holding off on comming until Butch got off too. Didn’t have to see it to know what was happening. Put his own hand in Tate’s damaged hair and pulled hard enough that he’d feel it, trying to make the blond come first so he could talk shit about it later.

“Yeah, like that, Tate. Gonna cum down your throat. And yer gonna swallow it.”

A little hissing whine from Tate and Butch knew he got him good. More squeezing now than stroking. Tate must have overestimated his endurance. He’d lost, messily, Butch could feel it against his leg. Fucker almost bit him too as he came.

Good, so blindingly good that Butch almost forgot to breathe. Tilted his head up again, got a little dizzy, but also got an eyeful of Tate between his legs. Tried to keep his groan back, but really, too much and not enough mental resources to keep everything in check. Mouth that hot that slick, too much.

Thought he wouldn't stop comming, even after Tate pulled back and started coughing. Had been something like ten days since he'd gotten off. Wasn't 18 anymore but 23 wasn't all that different.

The dizziness didn't fade. Felt seasick in the bed until he fell back asleep.

"Well, I figure it's safe to assume you know this fellow?"

Light outside and inside both. Butch cracked one eye open, then the other. Doctor Mitchell was sitting in that chair again. Only this time, a still asleep Tate was pressed against his chest. Must have cleaned them both up before taking off his armor last night. Blood had seeped through the crappy bandage on his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah." Words go stuck in his throat. "Wake up, Nosebleed." He avoided the ripper wound but shook the blond awake.

"Not fair," Tate murmured. "I ran all through the night."

"Yeah well we ain't alone."

Forgetting his injury, Tate went to roll over before realizing the error of his ways. Cursed under his breath and didn't bother to face the Doc.

"Well now, looks like you could use some work too. Let's see to that shoulder of yours." Mitchell rose and crossed the room, fishing out supplies to treat Tate's injury.

The privacy was momentary, but Butch took advantage of it. "There ain't no where else for us to run, Tate."

"I know." His hands were at Butch's face again, tracing the lines where his unwanted beard met smooth skin. Brown eyes open in the daylight, resignation clear enough. "Don't know why it's always gotta be us though."

"So," the doctor returned. "Let's get you seen to. I'm Mitchell. Folks round here call me Doc. Let's start with your name."

"I'm a nobody," Tate pulled himself up so he was seated on the edge of the bed. "I'm this one's sidekick."

Butch thought about laughing, but knew better.


	4. Truth is a Liar (Boone-centric, no sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boone thinks about the daughter he never had. Butch talks about the daughter he's never met. Tate kicks a corpse until it bursts.

They approach at night and Boone has half a mind to shoot them before they reach the outskirts of Novac. But they’re human and one of them is injured, so he starts out looking beyond them, making sure whatever got them isn’t in pursuit. By the time he’s certain nothing is heading towards the town, they’re already out of sight. 

He lights another cigarette and continues his watch. Another night of sand and wind and geckos. 

On the way back to his room, he runs into one of them. The stranger isn’t armored, just a white tee, some khakis, and sunglasses. He says hello and offers his hand, says his name is Tate and he’s looking for information. Boone tells him he doesn’t have any information, about anyone or anything. Right now he just wants to get to bed. Hopefully, in eight hours or so, he’ll feel like waking up, but there’s no guarantee of that. 

He does wake up. And he’s hungry. But he’s got nothing to eat so he heads back to the Dinosaur. He’ll buy some shit food and eat it cold. Maybe listen to the radio. He has a few hours and nothing to fill them. 

There’s nothing left that smells like her. 

All Briscoe’s got is a couple of packets of snack cakes. Boone tells him to forget about it and buys cigarettes instead. He’s in luck, Briscoe smiles, it’s the last pack he’s got. Those out-of-towners bought up most of them. 

Once he’s outside he lights one up. It’ll suppress his appetite. He knows he can’t go on living this way, but he doesn’t have a better plan at the moment. One man against Legion. 

The strangers are heading back towards town. They’re both in leather armor now. The one Boone ran into earlier has something’s guts smeared across his front and the other one wears a laser pistol on his hip. They’re laughing about something and the taller one has a pack full of salvage slung over his shoulder. 

Tate nods in his direction as they head into the shop. Says something to his companion about it, so close to his ear that his nose bumps into the side of his shaved head. Boone has no idea what he’s saying. Their encounter earlier was brief, nondescript.

He’s on duty for an hour before the two of them cram themselves into the tight space of the Dinosaur’s mouth. With three of them in there, they're practically on top of each other. Boone barks at them to get out. They don't listen and instead the one he hasn't met directly introduces himself as Butch. 

They're Butch and Tate and they want to know what Boone's game is. What he knows about this Benny character that Manny isn't telling them. 

He spits back that he's got no business with Manny, not anymore.

Tate hangs off Butch's shoulder and he can smell that they're practically doused in beer. Butch's eyes are glassy, he's hopped up on something other than beer too. Tate's got his sunglasses perched on top of his head and his words slur together.

"Yer hiding something. I just know it." He hiccups and his fingers curl into the shoulder of Butch's leather jacket. "Yer shifty."

"Get. Out."

"If I find out you're a liar," Butch starts, "I'll come back after I kill Benny and kill your ass too."

They stumble out of the mouth mumbling curses at each other, maybe at him too. The rest of the night is quiet.

Boone thinks about teaching a little girl to defend herself against idiots like them. Men with no sense and too much drink. He’d start her on a 9mm and they’d go from there. He’d teach her to be brave. Maybe Carla could teach that lesson better, though. But he could teach her to lie very still, to line up her sights and handle the recoil. But Carla, Carla could teach her to be fearless.

When his shift finishes, he heads downstairs and Briscoe stops him. Makes idle chat and hands him a can of pork'n'beans that's come in. The old man tells him that those out-of-towners took care of the ghoul problem up at REPCONN. Boone must have slept through the launch yesterday afternoon. Shot those zombie fucks straight into space. When they got back, they bought all his beer to celebrate. 

Boone thinks twice about Butch and Tate after that. Maybe they're annoying shits. But they might be useful, annoying shits. For now, he's got to get to sleep. He eats half the can, throws the rest out. Smokes three cigarettes. 

He dreams about a girl with light eyes, like his, and dark hair, like hers. She wears her hair in low pigtails that her mother tries to tame. But every evening there’s dirt in her hair and on her face from playing outside. 

The rifle is still too heavy to hold, but she can aim and fire laying flat on her stomach. She shoots geckos for practice but when they get too close she still screams and runs to him, because he’s her father and he’ll protect her.

When he wakes, he's resolved to find the strangers, before they get too comfortable. Before they get to know too many people and develop sympathy for those who deserve none. He fishes the discarded can out of the bin, but thinks better of it and tosses it again.

He doesn't have to look far. Butch is smoking on the motel balcony. He's standing on his toes and leaning over the edge of the railing. The drop isn't far and he seems steady enough today.

"Okay, so you want some information?"

Butch smirks and puts out his cigarette. "Always."

"Not out here. Where's the other one?"

"Inside, come on." 

Butch opens the door to the room they've rented. Inside they've sprawled out more random crap than Boone could imagine two men carrying around. There's all sorts of scrap and electronics and parts for energy weapons. Beat up armor too that's beyond repair. From the looks of it, they've been sorting through weeks worth of collected junk.

Tate is seated on the bed, just in his boxers and he looks unconcerned with Boone's presence, like he was expecting this. It was hard to tell with their armor on, but Tate's more muscular than any Wastelander Boone's ever seen. Now he suspects Butch is too. The NCR couldn't even train men into that sort of condition. 

His heart skips and he worries about Legion spies. But Legion don’t use energy weapons. And they don’t wear Pip-boys. And they don’t get drunk and high in the middle of the night and leave a target alive when there are no witnesses. So these two are weird, but not Legion weird. 

Tate sort of smiles but doesn't get up. Does put down the magazine he's flipping through and sits up a little straighter against the headboard. 

"Boone here has decided to talk." Butch pulls out a chair from the table and gestures for Boone to take it. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a hand on Tate's bare ankle.

"I need someone I can trust. And you two are strangers, that's a start."

"What, you only trust strangers?" Butch is careful, appraising. He's got his other hand in the pocket of his jeans. Boone can make out the outline of a switchblade.

"I said it was a start. No one in this town looks me in the eye anymore."

"This is starting to sound an awful lot like you need a favor," Tate says. "And I think we've done this town enough favors. You should be licking our damn boots."

"This isn't for the town. It's for me. I can make it worth your while." Boone looks around the room. "Maybe then you won't have to scavenge so much crap."

Tate shrugs his shoulders. "It's more of a hobby."

"Just listen, alright. I want you to find something out for me. I don't know if there's anything to find, but I need someone to try. My wife was taken by Legion slavers one night when I was on watch."

At the word 'legion' their body language changes. Butch looks over to Tate, who is noticeably on edge. Maybe Boone picked the wrong strangers, maybe they are Legion, changing their tactics.

"We'll get her," the words just sort of fall out of Butch's mouth and Boone knows for certain now that they’re not Caesar's men.

"No, not that. She's dead. I want the son of a bitch who sold her."

"How do you know she's dead? We can find her. We're good at that." Tate finally bothers to stand up and look around for his shirt. He’s as agitated as Butch.

"I know, alright." 

He sees Carla's face, soaked in sweat. Her stomach distended, not round and full like when he left her that night. 

She was standing in the kitchen, when he last saw her, eating dry toast and insisting that she'd cook something for him. There was no time, he was already running behind for his shift. He took a bite out of her toast and she pushed him away playfully. He'd been late because she'd looked good enough to eat. No, her stomach had been round then, before they took her. 

With the Legion it held against her frame differently. When blood came from the wound, red and fresh, she looked more alive than she did moments before. 

"That's all you need to know."

With the two men now eager to help him, Boone explains the rest of his plan. He gives his beret to Butch, because he has pants on, and tells them to bring the culprit in front of the Dinosaur during his shift. That's all they need to do, but he needs proof. It isn't closure without proof. It also isn't closure unless he puts the bullet in the fucker himself.

Two hours into his shift, Tate marches Jeannie May Crawford in front of the Dinosaur. He's got Boone's beret on top of his mop of blond hair. Crawford is laughing at something he said, obviously charmed.

The top of her skull comes of and skids across the dirt. Tate, to his credit, doesn't so much as flinch. He does stare at her corpse though, as blood soaks the sand. People die all the time.

The door opens behind him and it's Butch. An unlit cigarette hangs from his lips.

"Do you have proof?" Boone is almost afraid to ask. 

Butch shoves a folded up piece of paper into his hands "Bill of sale. Her name is on it. We're sure."

"Is he alright?" Boone gestures down to where Tate still stares at Crawford's corpse, his arms limp at his sides.

"He's never alright."

Tate begins kicking her corpse, violently smashing the toe of his boot against the remains of her face. Her skull starts coming apart like a smashed vase. The strikes move from her face down the length of her torso. He beats the body to a pulp, like scavengers ripped into it without carrying away the carrion.

Butch lights his cigarette and looks down at his companion. "But this isn't even the worst shit we've seen this week."

They watch Tate wear himself out. When he is finished, he sits by the body in silence, knees drawn to his chest. He'd been quiet all along, nothing more than grunts of exertion as he mangled the old woman's body.

"They took your kid too?" Butch asks.

"I don't want to talk about it." No, he doesn't want to talk about how some Legionary fucked up. How they'd sold Carla and their baby but were never going to get either. How his child was dead well before he put a bullet in his wife's head. Like the bullet he put in Crawford's. Maybe Tate was thinking straight when he decimated her corpse. Maybe Boone would have felt better if that was the way he did it.

"I got a kid." Butch speaks the words like they are foreign, like he doesn’t say it often.

"Good for you."

"I've never seen them. Someone said she's a little girl. Would be about four now." Butch doesn't look old enough for that. Must have been childhood sweethearts.

"Oh." Boone doesn't want to think about little girls. Little alive girls he'll never meet, with bows in their dark hair and smiles on pink lips, learning to shoot because that’s something he’s good at. Something he can teach with confidence. Something he can pass down. 

But he also wants to punch Butch in the face, tell him whatever stupid shit he did to his wife, he'd better take it back and get on his knees and beg to be forgiven. Whatever it was, it isn't worth his stubbornness. He better go back to the both of them. 

"You should go to her."

"Can't. Legion aren't the only slavers in the world. Just the most organized. Lots of other shit in this world will fuck you up too. So no, she's better where she is. And we can't go back."

Boone wishes he knew where this better place was. Wherever it is, he would have found it for Carla. He'd failed them in not thinking of it, of not finding it. He’d failed them in thinking a sleepy, ill defended town like Novac was the place for them.

Butch must be thinking of his wife and baby, wherever they were in this fabled safe place. He plays with the ring on his finger and watches the sun come up.


	5. The Clouds Apart (Arcade/Butch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> non-penetrative sex, substance, infidelity, you know, fluffy stuff. Arcade and Butch pretend to be married.

"Arcade," Butch jumped over the back of the couch where Arcade sat, settling into the seat like he owned it. Technically, with Mr. House out of the picture, he probably did. "We're gonna visit the Boomers."

"Oh, is that so?" Arcade kept flipping through faded copies of Future Weapons Today, not bothering to look over to the Courier. To be honest, he was perfectly content to spend his days shuffling between the Old Mormon Fort and the Lucky 38. Butch rarely asked him to accompany him out on missions. Normally he just patched people up when they got back, offered some sarcastic comment when the mood got too tense, ate Lily’s sweets and got soft. Sometimes he held Cass’ hair back when she overshot her impressive tolerance. Otherwise he lived his life like he did before Butch crashed into it.

"Yeah, and there's kind of a weird condition." Butch didn't look particularly nervous, so the condition couldn't have been that strange. "I need you to pretend you’re Tate."

Arcade kind of wished he were drinking something so he could manage an exaggerated spit-take, but instead he just dropped the magazine into his lap and stared at Butch. What?

"I don't see how that's possible, as we're not at all alike, we don't even look vaguely alike. A jet junkie wearing a molerat carcass over his eyes could tell us apart. Also, what?"

"Listen, man, every time I go to Nellis they hassle me about him.'Where’s this husband of yours?' 'When are we gonna meet him?' 'Does he not want to visit us?' ‘Did you lie to us because our girls aren’t good enough for you?’ I worked real hard to win them over, okay? And playing it like a family man was part of that. I'm not blowing this alliance because I can't actually produce a husband for them to inspect."

"Why not just take Tate?" The premise of this was ridiculous, like something out of an old romcom. Not that Arcade had seen many. Nope. When he did, it was to mock the shit out of them. Most of Butch's plans were ridiculous, but they did tend to work out for the best.

"He's already left for Bitter Springs with Boone, and could you imagine if something went...wrong." Now Butch looked nervous. Maybe just uncomfortable at having to admit not all was normal or right with his partner. They all knew Tate lacked a certain stability, they just didn't bring it up all the time. Kind of redundant to point it out.

Arcade shouldn’t have given in so easily. But it was true he wasn’t exactly pulling his weight with this whole ‘seize control of New Vegas’ plot Butch had hatched. And the Boomers were promising significant firepower. Plus that weakness for blue eyes. Fuck.

“What exactly have you told the Boomers about your husband? Because I may have trouble passing for a twenty-four-year-old, 5’7” Chinese kid who can probably bench press a car.”

“He’s 5’9””

“Not the point, Butch. And...no, he's not?”

Butch shrugged and lit a cigarette before offering one to Arcade. “I haven't told them much, that his name is Tate obviously, that he’s a guy, I think you got that one covered. Why I asked you instead of Cass.”

“Nice to know I was first choice for this operation.”

“Hey man, I considered just binding her tits for a long time before asking you.” The way Butch smiled about that made Arcade’s stomach twitch.

\--

The bombed out no-mans-land that encircled Nellis wasn't the most reassuring sight. More anxiety producing was the ring on Arcade's finger. They picked it up on the way at Gun Runners. Why the arsenal stocked wedding rings was lost on them both, but it saved them from backtracking, yet again, to Freeside. It had been a series of starts and stops the whole way through. Neither of them were particularly relaxed.

Butch pulled a hand-held radio from his pack and called ahead. Once they were cleared to approach they walked side by side toward the base. Butch kept both his hands on the straps of his pack and kicked at debris under his feet. Arcade smoked. He'd stayed off the things for years but the Vaulties could drive a man to substance real quick.

"Grab my hand man." Butch stuck out his right hand like it was foreign to him.

Arcade reached across the space between them and grabbed on. Their joined hands just sort of stayed there stiffly in the air, awkward. Butch's hand was significantly smaller, smaller palm, stubby fingers. Knuckles that had been broken and healed over and over.

"Okay, let's go," Butch dropped his arm and Arcade followed. Their fingers stayed intertwined even after Butch's hand started to sweat.

The Courier waved to the woman who greeted them at the gates. Her smile was terse at best and made Arcade wonder just how far along Butch was with negotiations. He'd made it seem like he was already in their good graces.

"Hey Raquel, thanks for letting us through." Butch smiled so wide and so sincerely with his perfectly straight teeth that it actually reflected back in a softening of Raquel's face.

"I see you brought a guest," she shifted her rifle, reminding both men she had it.

"Yeah, Pearl wanted to meet Tate and all." Butch squeezed his hand and smiled at Arcade. He was a better actor than Arcade thought.

"He's...different than I expected." Raquel looked Arcade up and down, lingering on his face. She was a petite, but well built woman, probably carrying about her own body weight in ordinance to boot. Terrifying little thing.

"Yeah well," Butch huffed, "I don't want nobody talking shit about him."

Raquel shrugged, "Just didn't expect him to be so old."

"Well," hopefully Butch had a suitable comeback. Arcade had raised the question of his age before, but Butch assured him he'd never given them an exact age. Honestly, he hadn't really considered the difference between them. That a man in his thirties...late thirties would somehow be wed to an objectively gorgeous piece of Vault ass.

"Said he was my childhood sweetheart, didn't I? Don't mean he was a child too."

Arcade smiled sheepishly at Butch’s response. It was a rather scandalous suggestion, even if only just pretend. Probably didn’t reflect that well on him, but Raquel seemed to accept it.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you from Pearl, then.” She dismissed them with a curt nod and climbed back up to her nest overlooking the airfield.

Butch led them between trailers and storage containers with certainty. The base was only thinly populated, with a few Boomers who looked to be in their late twenties and the occasional child following behind. Butch released his hand, but only to wipe it against his pant leg before grabbing back onto Arcade.

“Aren’t you being rather affectionate?” Arcade asked while he was fairly sure no one else was close enough to hear.

“What? You’re my husband, ain’t you?” Butch’s grammar was impeccable. That was, when he wasn’t putting on a show or generally trying to be folksier than he actually was. Both vault kids did it, speaking like some imaginary illiterate they had conjured from storybooks.

“You’re not like this with him.”

“And how would you know that?”

Taken aback, Arcade realized he wouldn’t know. Fuck, he didn’t know enough to pull this off. Didn’t know enough about Butch or the man he was supposed to be impersonating or what exactly was going on with the Boomers. Didn’t know Butch’s birth date or allergies or how he took his coffee. He pulled Butch between two of the trailers. The Courier didn’t offer much in the way of resistance.

“What, Tate?”

It even took Arcade a moment to realize Butch was addressing him. This was already an unmitigated disaster.

“There’s no way, Butch. This isn’t going to work. I don’t know enough about you, both of you, to pull this off. It’s going to be even worse than if you hadn’t brought your ‘husband’ all.” He should have been more reasonable, he should have said no. Butch would have had more luck with literally anyone else, Cass spent much more time with the both of them, she’d do better. Fuck it if she wasn’t a man.

“It will work,” Butch hissed, “and it’s too late now, Raquel has already seen ya so there ain’t no way to change it.” Butch went for his pocket and his pack of cigarettes. He tapped one against the pack but didn’t light it. “Just pretend like you like me and we’ll be fine. We don’t get separated and we’ll keep our stories straight. Okay?”

There was no choice. Well, he could run straight out of the base, probably get gunned down by trigger-happy Boomers, and then have bloatflies feast on his carcass. Arcade considered it for a few seconds before accepting that he was stuck.

“Okay.”

Butch put a hand to Arcade’s cheek. His hand was slightly damp. “Love you, Tate.”

He put the cigarette back into the pack without lighting it. A Boomer waved at them both. Arcade's wished he had an ounce of wit in that moment, but it eluded him.

\--

Pearl was alert, kind, and less suspicious than the other Boomers. She greeted Arcade with a firm handshake and Butch with a hug. They sat on her couch while she told stories, drinking tea laced with liquor, because they should still enjoy life while they could. When her stories dried up, she wanted one from Butch and Tate. Arcade let Butch do the talking, bit his tongue and sipped his tea.

"I just knew we'd never be alone, long as we had each other. Even if people didn't like us all that much. Vault is like that, people all around you but not with you. Know all your business, but don't give a damn about you."

Arcade had his arm draped over the back of the couch, Butch pressed against his side. The Courier smiled into his tea and Arcade felt profoundly unnerved at the intimacy of it. The warmth of Butch's body pleasant, but not actually his for the taking. Staring at his dark hair and how thick it had gotten. He wanted to touch it just at the nape, but he shouldn't.

"I wouldn't have made it this far without him. Wouldn't be anywhere without him." Butch rested his head against Arcade's shoulder.

He didn't think, just kissed the top of Butch's head. His hair smelled clean, like the little bottles back at the Lucky 38. These words were not for him, he couldn't pretend they were, but that also didn't mean they had no effect.

In time Butch fell asleep like that, head against Arcade, his chest rising and falling. It was early yet, but it wasn't much of a surprise. He pushed himself quite hard, jetting back and forth across the Mojave. So many of the tasks seemed trivial, but Butch insisted they knew what they were doing, this time they would get it right. This time they wouldn't lose so much. Arcade didn't know what he meant. Only it looked like he would run himself into the dirt before stopping to breathe.

Pearl took their empty mugs and gave Butch a soft look. That she was fond of him was clear enough.

"So tell me," she went about rinsing the mugs thoroughly. "When did you know you loved him?"

With Butch asleep, Arcade had to answer, scramble for something. This was exactly the situation he feared. Butch shifted against him but did not wake. What was going to be consistent with the character Butch had devised for the Boomers, he wasn't sure.

He squeezed Butch’s shoulder, let his thumb stroke over it in slow strokes.

Arcade started slowly, "He was angry, really angry. Punched a wall over someone who should have treated him better. Someone who didn't deserve him. Broke his wrist in the process. It was so stupid." Arcade thought back to that particular encounter with Butch. It was the same day Butch told him he was gay. That momentary flash of excitement spurred by private fantasies that came and went for weeks as the Courier passed through Old Mormon Fort. But it was so brief. "I was patching him up. I always thought he was handsome, but that was when I realized he was a good person too. How much he cared, how deeply he could be wounded. It was hard not to care about him after that."

Arcade hoped that didn't give too much away. That it didn't contradict some other tale Butch had told. Most of all, he hoped Butch didn't hear.

\--

In the evening they ate dinner in the mess. Sound reverberated off the metal walls, making the whole place seem livelier than it perhaps actually was. The fare wasn't fancy, but it was better than eating out of tin cans. The younger Boomers still looked wary, but an older man named Loyal slapped Arcade on the back and offered him a drink. Thinking it polite, Arcade accepted. Some sneared but Loyal said to pay them no mind, the children had forgotten what it was like to take risks.

Across from him Butch drank beer, Raquel did too. She was more open with him than she had been at the gate. Maybe it was just the change of scenery. Her dark hair had been up before but now she wore it down around her shoulders. On his third beer, Butch tugged on it and she slapped his hand away. From her smile it was clear she didn't mind that much.

He drank with Loyal until his stomach was warm. Warmed him more when Butch looked across the table and smiled at him. Dinner was winding down and it was too late to head back to the Strip. Butch told Raquel he had to duck outside to smoke and she waved him off. He pulled at her collar before leaving.

Arcade excused himself, a little wobbly when he stood. Loyal must've handled liquor like a champ and Arcade had been keeping pace. After the initial rush his head cleared a bit and he followed Butch out.

The air was cool, though there was little breeze. Butch had a lit cigarette in one hand and something else palmed in his other. Arcade could guess what without having to get a good look at the canister.

"Cass will kill you."

Butch took a long drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke before answering. "She isn't my ma." He handed the cigarette to Arcade and took a hit from the jet. Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes.

"What about your Boomer's reputation?"

"Everyone is inside or on watch. I know their movements. That's how I know when to hold your hand."

Arcade smoked from Butch's cigarette. The end was still moist from his lips, slightly waxy too. Butch motioned that he wanted it back, sucked from it, tapped off the ash.

"I don't wanna go back inside. We've done enough today. They'll accept me. I have a room here. Let's go." He passed Arcade the smoke to finish off.

Butch's room was actually a full trailer, sparsely furnished and without any personal effects. He probably didn't spend much time here, and it was more a token of goodwill than anything else. There was a bed, a couch, some clean glasses on the countertop. Butch pulled a beer from the fridge and offered one to Arcade, his stomach couldn't take it.

When he finished drinking it, mostly in one go, he wiped his arm on his sleeve and went for another round of jet. Arcade figured it was useless to discourage him now. He'd have to find time when he was sober. It may have been some sort of coping mechanism, but there were better ways to deal with stress. He should make a list of them before broaching the topic.

"Thanks for helping out, man. You did great." Butch toed off his boots and reached for the hem of his shirt. No hint of embarrassment or modesty and he peeled away layers. Arcade hadn't seen him shirtless since back at Old Mormon, but he had thought about it. About the way his muscles were solid and defined, about the lines that cut down his lower back, the long scar across his chest, hooking into his waistband.

"Yeah," Arcade's mouth was dry, Loyal's whiskey in the back of his throat. "No problem."

"I can take the couch. You're bigger and, you know, older, so you can have the bed." Butch dropped his slacks and kicked them into the corner of the room. His face was flushed and eyes glassy from the chems. His lips parted and a little glossy yet. Just clad in his boxers. To get to the couch he had to pass Arcade. Butch smirked, "You're staring."

Bad decisions, all around. To reach for him, to grab the back of Butch's neck and pull him forward. Press his lips to the Courier's and feel him pressing back, Butch's hands grabbing hold of the lapels of his coat and squeezing. Arcade's other hand pressed to the naked skin of Butch's lower back, his fingers lingering over the impressions of muscle. Wrong, wrong. Bad decision.

But Butch's tongue was in his mouth, tasting like beer and smoke and the sour bite of chems. His eyes were closed but Arcade knew the color too well. Because he stared. Sucker. He stared all the time. Thought of this more often than he should.

He should have stopped it. Butch was high and probably a bit drunk, already nearly naked and hard against Arcade's thigh, parting his legs around it and grinding. Biting at his lip. Arcade may have started it, but he could end it too. Hands creeping up and under his shirt, pressing against his soft stomach and up to his ribs.

Butch came down off his toes and looked Arcade straight in the eye, his expression neutral. Regret, maybe, that would be appropriate. They shouldn't. They really shouldn't.

Arcade shucked his shirt and took Butch's face between his hands, kissing him again and waiting for a note or rejection that didn't come. Had Butch been thinking about this as well? How long?

It wasn't his responsibility to police Butch's actions. He could barely handle himself.

They plodded in the direction of the bed with uneasy, backwards steps until Butch toppled over onto his back. Spread his legs and pulled his cock from his boxers, stroking it roughly. When a hissing whine punctured the sound of their breathing, Arcade lost the semblance of self control that had been his lifeline.

Stripping from his remaining clothes, Arcade kept his eyes locked on Butch, the way he squirmed in place, how his arm tightened as he stroked himself. His dark eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, as his eyes shut and stayed shut.

He climbed on top of the Courier, nudging his thighs apart and pressing their bodies together. Butch was warm and hard everywhere, without deformity. Moaned into Arcade's mouth as they rutted against each other. Butch's arm was pinned between their bodies and his strokes were shorter now.

"Fuck," Butch groaned, "fuck."

Arcade said nothing. Just thrust himself against Butch, his erection rubbing between them. He looped his arms around Butch and held him in place as their bodies ground together.

"Open your eyes," Arcade pleaded.

Butch did, his gaze still distant, but so so bright. Heavy, labored breaths through pink lips. Looked better than the barely-alive world they inhabited. Clear a sign as any that he wasn't born into it, not really. Wore it everywhere like a mantle.

The coil of arousal in Arcade's gut wound and unwound as he ran his hands over Butch's body, traced the line of that jarring scar. Butch responded to everything with strangled sounds and shallow thrusts. Butch let go of his erection and instead wrapped his arms around Arcade's shoulders and held on tight. His legs mimicked the grip, binding Arcade against him as he thrust up and against him.

Butch keened and came between their bodies. It was faster and slicker than Arcade was prepared for, the desperation of release shook him. He roughly pushed Butch back down against the mattress, his cum clinging to them both. Arcade took himself in his hand and stroked. Had the wild thought of coating Butch in his semen. Laying claim to a man that was not his, making him his.

As he released onto the taut flesh of Butch's rising and falling abdomen, those possessive thoughts turned to soft shame. He had fucked up. They had both fucked up. This was fucked up.

Butch groaned and shifted. "You're heavy." A simple, truthful, statement.

Arcade rolled away so Butch could sit up. He seemed more sober now, finding his feet and walking to the bathroom. When he returned he tossed Arcade a damp towel and went for his pile of clothes in the corner. Finding a cigarette he lit one, stood in the corner and smoked.

The words Arcade wanted wouldn't come. So instead he stared. Watched Butch tap away at his Pipboy an burn through his cigarette. This time he didn't offer one to Arcade so he got up, found his own pack.

"It's not anything," Butch said, looking up from his Pipboy. "Just don't bring it up."

"Right." Arcade had a suspicion he had just been played, but in what game, he didn't know.


	6. Recall the Days (Butch/Tate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dirty talk, no sex, actually fluffy maybe?

The bartender scoffed when he ordered beer and poured it from the bottle into a glass. Fancy. Tate thought that a waste of resources but enjoyed the feel of the chilled cylinder between his hands. His suit pulled too tight at the shoulders and the hem on the slacks was half an inch too long. He knew these things because he'd seen it in pre-war fashion magazines. 

The beer tasted like shit on his tongue. Always had, since the coma, at least. Each time he thought it would taste better, like some memory now years old. Made him think his memories of the Vault were sweeter than the real thing too. But not Amata. He'd remember every detail of her face until the day he died. He owed her as much.

He watched couples dance in awkward movements, some a little too tipsy and others just bad at it. A whole wasteland full of graceless bodies. They looked happy, though. NCR soldiers on leave dancing with civilians just looking for a thrill. He liked the way the women's skirts twirled when they were spun too hard, their laughter rising to the ceiling. 

"Hey," Butch's hands rested on his shoulders, thumbs grazing up and down the line of his neck. "Looking for company?"

Tate smiled, "I'm taken."

"Yeah, lucky guy." His thumbs kept moving, up and down, up and down.

Butch ordered two more beers and Tate followed him to one of the empty booths. His suit fit kinda right, right length, tapering slightly at the waist. The dress shirt under it was clean too, starch-white and crisp. Kind of odd to look this formal. Had been Butch's idea.

The Tops lived in a way the Lucky 38 couldn't, filled with sounds of music and drunken happiness. It was a populated place, unlike anywhere back at the Capital. That was it, the 38 was too much like the dead spaces back east.

Whenever Tate mumbled to some stranger they were from the east, the fool thought Legion territory. People here couldn't imagine something bigger, badder than tribal men playing with their tiny cocks. But he and Butch, they knew better. Knew tinier dicks that came with bigger guns, who came with plans to poison them all and could build robots that looked and felt like men. The Mojave had no fucking idea.

Tate slid down real low in his seat, lacing his legs between Butch's under the table. 

"Weird," Butch started. "It doesn't matter what we do here, no one bothers us. It's..."

"Nice?" Tate finished.

Butch smiled, "Yeah. It may not last."

"They'll know your name when we kill Caesar. They'll be singing your praises, Butch-man." He shook his leg under the table, bouncing Butch's around. "You'll be up to your eyeballs in women."

Butch rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer. "Wanna dance, Nosebleed?"

"Why?" Tate knew why, but it was part of the game. The game that replaced their childish poor decisions and literal fist fights with mimed disinterest. 

"So when everyone knows our names, there's no question."

"Oh?" 

Butch offered his hand and Tate took it, their beers abandoned. The song was slow and the floor full. Like the Tops didn't know its master was away, maybe Caesar had broken his promise and killed Benny while they were busy making preparations. That didn't matter to the girls with flushed cheeks and the boys with something to prove. In the Capital they looked so young. Here, Tate felt old. But good old, comfortable old.

"Yeah," Butch held Tate against him. Nearly the same height but Tate rested his head against Butch's shoulder just the same, threw his arms around his neck. Always preferred it this way, and Butch didn't mind his tastes. Didn't mind putting his arms around Tate's waist and hooking his fingers through his belt loops at the back. He smelled of aftershave and cigarettes. 

"No question of what, Butch?" He kissed low against his neck, just where Butch's shirt collar ended.

His hair had grown back, bit by bit after that shot he took from Benny. Still not as long as Butch would have liked, but Tate thought he was gorgeous in any case. Tate ran his fingers through it in the back, splaying his fingers wide.

"What your name is," Butch practically growled into Tate's hair. "Say it for me."

Tate smirked, rubbed his thigh against Butch's groin and watched his moist, pink lips part. Waited for the little breath of excitement to pass. He kept his voice low, private, between them even in the crowd. "Tate DeLoria."

‘Zhang’ had been the last vestige of his father. Good riddance. Even if it was half-pretend. 

This time Butch's growl was unmistakable, possessive. His arms tightened around Tate's slim hips. Mouth started running faster than the pace of the music behind them. Voices low and fast.

"Wanna take you upstairs and fuck you in that asshole's bed."

"You think I'm that easy? All you did was buy me a beer."

"I know you're that easy. Now come on or people will know our names a hell of a lot sooner cause I'll put you on your knees right here."

"Promises, promises."


	7. Match to the Grain (Benny/Tate, Butch/Tate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knifeplay, torture, violence, and there really isn't much in the way of sex.

He'd worn the best clothes he could scrounge. They weren't too bad. Between the drawers at the Lucky 38 and other salvaged crap, Tate had plenty of options. The tee was a bright, starched white that was unusual to see in the Wastes. The cotton pulled tight against his shoulders and chest. His jeans sat low on his hips with the red of his boxers peeking out just over the waistband. Instead of wearing his ring on his finger, it was on a thin cord around his neck, pressing against his skin under his shirt. It showed through a little, but he couldn't bear to be parted from it, even now.

There were scabs on his knuckles, still fresh from his last fight a couple of days ago. He'd punched a raider's metal helmet in, crushing his assuredly-ugly face inside. Wheezing breaths seeped out through the mouth hole until Butch had come up behind him and put a laser through the fucker's chest, then pushed Tate face first in the dirt, pulled down his leather armor, and jerked him off right there.

They'd taken up residence in the 38 a week or so prior. It was a nice set up. Waltzed right in and killed Mr. House. Not like it was difficult. The fucker wouldn't shut up about what "the Courier" was supposed to do for him. As if they needed the caps or another old man breathing down their necks. Nah, what they needed was here, at the Tops.

The bartender handed Tate his second beer. He flashed her a smile, exposing the straight, white teeth that would always mark him as not-a-Waster. Maybe even more than the Pipboy on his wrist. Pipboys could be stolen off of corpses, nice teeth came from years of nutrition and medical care. 

He didn't even like beer anymore. But he had to kill time somehow waiting for Benny to show. Had a whole list of things to look out for, most of all the checkered coat. Knew that was supposed to be real ugly. Knew the man inside the coat wasn't supposed to be as hard on the eyes.

Butch was away working on something or another that Cass needed. Something about lost caravans and energy weapons. Tate didn't really care. Wasn't like he couldn't afford to buy Butch a new gun if he fucking wanted one. But it was probably worth it just to keep Cass on their good side, lest she stick dynamite under their pillows.

Sipping his beer, he waited. Didn't haven't to wait so very long. Turned out it was true Benny stood out in a crowd. Problem was, a crowd stood around him too. Pretty girls with pin-curled hair and flushed cheeks. Like out of pre-war vids. They flocked around him. But the thing Tate dwelled on was how pretty Amata would have looked in one of those dresses.

He'd have to get Benny alone. Like hell he was gonna kill the guy without making it crystal fucking clear why he was gonna die. Tate had fantasized about it for weeks, the slow way he would torture the man who shot Butch. Make him pay for the seven days of silence Butch spent in the coma. Seven days when Tate didn't know where his husband was or what had happened to him. Maybe he would cut off seven of the bastard's fingers.

How had Butch even done it when Tate was out for two months? Was it easier because at least he had known where Tate's body was the whole time? Or worse because he had basically watched him die? Why did this shit always happen to them? Because Tate couldn't be good, maybe. Wasn't wired for being a Wasteland Saint.

He slid off the barstool, leaving a mostly full beer behind. Ran his fingers through his blond hair and conjured an opening line. Important to strike the right bargain. With his hands in his front pockets, his jeans slipped lower. He had this. More than that, he had a napkin from the 38 in his back pocket.

"Hey, Mister." Under normal circumstances, Tate didn't emphasize his eastern seaboard accent. It was so far east, most people in New Vegas wouldn't recognize it anyway. Made him and Butch stand out too much. Now he let it come through his lips as clear as day. Maybe it would stir recognition. That he and the Courier were from the same distant hole in the ground. Worth a shot.

Benny lit his cigarette before answering. Spoke with it still between his lips. "What do you want, kid."

Tate smiled and averted his eyes. "I heard a lot about you, wanted to see for myself." Cocked one hip forward, slid his foot closer to Benny's.

"And what makes you think I want to be seen by you?"

The smoke Benny exhaled filled Tate's nostrils, familiar smells. 

"Because I know more than you think." He pulled the napkin from his back pocket and handed it over. Pushed his jeans lower in the process, offering something else too. Would be easier to get Benny alone and vulnerable if he accepted.

Benny turned it over. His eyes went wide when he saw the Lucky 38 logo printed on it. Looked real hard at the napkin, then at Tate, then at his Pipboy. Tate would have sworn he looked at his straight-toothed smile too. Turned out Benny wasn't an idiot, put a lot of things together real fast.

"You've been inside." His eyes narrowed, "You're with that courier."

"Don't hafta be with him. Could be against him. Could be with you instead." Cautiously, Tate reached forward and took the thin fabric of Benny's tie between his thumb and forefinger. When Benny didn't recoil, he backed off slowly. Smiled again and looked at his feet. His boots had a brown-red crust. Either blood or dust or maybe both.

Benny waved one of his bodyguards over. Whispered something in his ear before dismissing him. "Follow me, kid."

As they crossed the casino floor to the elevators, Tate stayed a half-step behind. He used the time to appraise Benny best he could through his clothes. They were just about the same height. Benny looked broader, but that didn't mean he was anywhere near as strong, just bigger bones, didn't have to mean stronger. Tate had to bank on that. Technically Tate was unarmed, but that didn't mean much.

Benny offered him a cigarette and Tate refused politely. Said it was no good for his lungs, always made him cough up a storm. Made the most of the differences in their ages. Tried to look younger than he was, though Benny had to be at least thirty-five, maybe more. He already had those wrinkles by the corners of his eyes that came with a little age, but not too much. Under his collar, Tate could make out the creep of black tattoos. 

In the elevator they didn't speak. Not in the hallway either. Not a word had passed between them since the proffered cigarette. Benny did put his hand at the small of Tate's back just as they entered his suite. Just in case either of them were unsure what was about to happen.

Tate had expected some amount of conversation once inside. Or maybe the offer of a drink. Didn't expect to be thrown against the wall, to feel Benny's weight press against his and fingers fist in his long hair. 

Benny growled against his ear, "Show me why I should want your help, you pretty queer."

Laughter bubbled up from inside Tate's chest, "What makes you think I'm queer?"

"Don't mistake this for my first time indulging in something shiny that caught my eye."

This was more fun than Tate expected. Was gonna be good tearing out his toenails one by one. Slicing him down the middle of his chest and flaying him alive. So many possibilities. But first, Tate went about unbuttoning Benny's shirt. Pressed their lips together too. Felt Benny fighting him and let him win. Let him slide his tongue past his lips and into his mouth. Tate hummed at it, feigning enjoyment. Gasped a little at the end.

"I guess I should be flattered. You're a man of taste, after all."

As the buttons came undone the patchwork of tribal tattoos across Benny's chest came into view. Most of them were poorly done, the ink faded away. Tate traced his fingers along the darker ones, feeling the rise and fall of Benny's chest. It was as if everyone in the damn world had a secret, past life. Tate had his nightmares, Butch that scar from Arizona, Benny his chicken-scratch.

He pushed off Benny's shirt and jacket in one go before dropping to his knees. Through his dark slacks he could already feel the heat of Benny's erection. Tate pressed his lips over the covered cock before working his buckle.

"That's it," Benny hissed.

Tate pushed his slacks down off his hips, just enough to pull out Benny's erection. Pressed his free hand against Benny's abdomen. "Tell me," he looked up and smiled, catching Benny's eyes. "You gonna reciprocate?"

"I ain't a fink." He carded his fingers through Tate's hair. Grabbed hold and pulled Tate's face forward towards his cock. Thrust his hips at the same time.

Pity, it was a nice cock.

Tate twisted, sharp, sudden, and hard. Benny's scream was all of those things too. So sweet in Tate's ears. He let go and wrapped his arms around Benny's legs, pulling them towards him until he toppled backwards into a heap on the floor. A smack rang through the suite when Benny's head hit the floor. Tate scrambled on top of him, pinning him to the ground, locking his arms in place with his thighs. Like this, with all of Tate's weight on top of him, it would be impossible for Benny to get up.

He'd been knocked out when his head hit the floor, but he was already coming back around. Good. He wanted Benny to be awake for this.

"Stay good and quiet, Ben-man. Don't make me cut out your tongue." Tate's lips hovered just centimeters above Benny's. Kept up this perverse intimacy. "For someone who thinks he can control New Vegas, you're awfully gullible."

To his credit, Benny didn't look scared. Maybe a little resigned, but not scared.

"Do you know who I am?" He kissed the tip of Benny's nose. "You can answer that."

"That courier's friend."

"He has a name, you should know it, he’s all over the radio."

"Butch, you're Butch's friend." His eyes shifted to the Pipboy again. "You two came out of the same vault."

Tate nodded, let his hair brush against Benny's forehead. "I'm his husband. And you, you piece of shit, killed him."

"Last I heard he was crawling around the wasteland like some fucking goody-goody."

Tate hit him hard in the jaw. Heard it crack too. "Didn't say you could answer that one. And doesn't change the fact he was dead. So you know what I'm going to do to you?"

Silence from Benny.

"You can answer that one."

"Kill me?"

"Maybe, not yet, though."

Under him, Tate could feel Benny's cock twitch. Fucker got off on this shit. Maybe Tate did too, a little.

Keeping Benny locked down, he reached across for the checkered coat. Tate searched the pockets for any sort of weapon. Pulled out a gun with a pearl grip, some sort of drawing of a woman on it, and a switchblade. He tossed the gun aside but held onto the knife.

"This is nice," Tate flicked the blade open. There were all sorts of tricks Butch could do with his. Even though Tate didn't have that talent, he could still handle the knife well enough. "You know, Butch has a much nicer one. Takes better care of it. This one is still pretty sharp, though.

Tate dragged the blade down Benny's sternum, maybe for a total of three inches. Didn't make a peep about it, gritted his face though at the pain. That at least proved the fucker was human. Fresh blood welled up from the slice, bright red and beautiful. Tate dipped his finger in it and smeared it around. 

"It'll do, I suppose." Tate shifted his weight and Benny thought it was his opportunity. While he was clearly somewhat proficient in combat, Tate was better. More than that, Tate knew he was better. Let Benny free his right arm completely before grabbing hold of his wrist and pinning it above his head. Benny grunted with exertion but still didn't scream. Seemed to know well enough that he'd be dead before any help arrived.

Tate didn't waste time, sliced the blade across the all fingers on Benny's left hand before pressing it down hard as he could with the pressure concentrated over his ring finger. The switchblade wasn't strong enough to cut through bone, but it was sharp enough to cut through skin, through muscle, to make Benny scream before Tate punched him in the side of the head to knock him out again.

Feeling it would probably be a few minutes before Benny woke up again, Tate stood and appraised the suite. Blood flowed from Benny's hand and spread out across the floorboards. Likely it wasn't enough for him to bleed out entirely. 

Tate locked the door, just in case, but he doubted anyone would come. Places like this the odd scream was common enough. He was fairly certain Benny had told his guards not to follow earlier. Idiot.

The bedroom was nothing impressive. If anything the suite wasn't nearly as swank as Tate assumed it would be. Nothing like the 38. He started haphazardly pulling out drawers, looking for other implements to use on Benny when he woke up. That was when a notch in the wall caught his eye. A subtle thing, really, if one wasn't accustomed to looking.

Tate pulled at the notch and the wall slid open. Inside the other room he saw computer terminals lined up, excess cabling, and stacks of pre-war books. When he turned the corner, the bright, cheery, terrifying face of a Securitron greeted him.

"Howdy!"

That made Tate nearly jump out of his a boots. Robots. Always fucking robots. Just cause this one seemed friendly, didn't mean it was.

"What are you?" Instinctively, Tate took a step back. Reached towards his face for sunglasses that he wasn’t even wearing.

"Well, I'm Yes Man! Benny depends on me for his plot to take control of the Strip. Where is he anyways?"

"Indisposed. Why are you telling me this?"

"Well, he wanted me to be real helpful, but never specified who I was supposed to help. So I guess that's everybody."

Tate nodded. Overcoming his initial distrust of robots, only if just a little, he continued on. "Tell me everything you know about his plans."

"Okie-dokey." 

\--

Tate wanted to be there when Benny woke. Personally tell him about the change of plans. While he was passed out Tate moved him from the floor to the bed, bandaged up his hand too. Stripped him naked for the shock value and stuck his boxers in his mouth. Didn't bother to tie him down or anything, Tate trusted he was smart enough not to try anything.

There wasn't any beer in the fridge so Tate just drank water while he waited. Played with his Pipboy and shot off a couple of texts to Butch.

130758 > 271257: I love you.  
130758 > 271257: Wait until you see what I've done.

A groan from the bed alerted him that Benny had woken. Tate sat on the edge of the bed to make sure Benny caught every word of what he was about to say.

"I had a little conversation with your robot. Creepy fucker. But good news. I'm not going to kill you."

From his eyebrows Tate could tell Benny was suspicious.

"Really. If you want to run off to Fortification Hill, be my fucking guest. I already nicked the Chip." Tate held it up where Benny could see. "There is probably at least one Legion spy downstairs. Maybe on this floor too. They've been plenty interested in Butch and me for a long time." He smiled, thinking of Arizona. What a shithole. "They know we came up together. So this is what you do," Tate purred. "You and me, we're a real item, behind Butch's back and all. Legion loves a bunch of queers more than anything. They should know. Feed them all sorts of lies, baby, I'm sure you can make them sing. I'll bring them Butch, trade for you. They'll think they are so clever. We'll tear them apart. You survive all that, maybe I let you walk."

Tate pulled the fabric from Benny's mouth so he could respond. "And what's in this for me?"

"Survival."

"Fair enough."

\--

He gave Benny a twenty minute head start.

271257 > 130758: what the fuck you do nosebleed  
130758 > 271257: You need to act real mad at me, love.  
130758 > 271257: Tell someone I slept with Benny.  
271257 > 130758: what the fuck did you do  
271257 > 130758: nosebleed  
130758 > 271257: Yes, just like that, but somewhere public, where legion can see you.  
271257 > 130758: but to be clear you didnt fuck him right  
130758 > 271257: Course not, but you can punish me like I did later.

When he exited the Tops lobby, a frumentarii approached him. Only this one wasn't wearing a dog as a hat like the one they killed at Nipton. Looked just as stupid. Thought he blended in when really he stood out bad as Butch or Tate. They were too clean and the Legion too broken.

“The eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you. He admires your accomplishments, and bestows upon you the exceptional gift of his Mark,” the spy said like he was asking about the weather. “Your crimes against the Legion, including the death of the fearless Vulpes Inculta, are hereby forgiven. Caesar will not extend this mercy again. My Lord requires your presence at his camp, at Fortification Hill. His Mark will guarantee your safe-conduct through our lands. Incidentally, it will interest you to know that the man you seek has fled the Strip, and is likely making haste for Caesar's camp as we speak.”

Tate feigned shock, but regained his composure just as quickly. "Where is he, you shit? What did you do with Benny?"

The agent sneered, “We will keep him at Fortification Hill. Make your way to Cottonwood Cove and we will transport you from there. Caesar suggests you bring the Courier, if you plan on meeting Benny alive. And the Platinum Chip.”

Tate swallowed hard and nodded. 

There was a small object in the spy’s palm. He passed it to Tate. “Mighty Caesar wishes for this to be the beginning of a fruitful alliance, Lone Wanderer.”

With that he tipped his hat, headed back into the crowd. Still stood out. Always would, if one knew how to see them. 

Tate undid the cord already around his neck. Slid his wedding ring off and put it back on his finger. Clasped the Mark on instead and tucked it under his shirt. 

This was going to work out great. He couldn’t wait to tell Butch.


	8. Friendly (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is because of some dick comment on the kink meme. Not an actual fill but I guess I'll toss this in anyway

Boone smells nothing but Legion blood and the chemical smoke from burning treated canvas. So sweet in his nostrils. There’s that side arm he’s been carrying in case everything went to shit and he wants to empty it in some corpse’s head. Having to hang back means he didn’t get to watch the light go out of their eyes. Too much in the chaos.

They’re all hooting and hollering, Cass most of all with an open bottle. When she drinks some rolls out of the corner of her mouth. She barely pauses to wipe it away with her hand before screaming again, top of her lungs, laughing too.

Running full speed ahead, Butch crashes into him, knocking him over and laughing so hard he’s shaking. His arms tremble from the adrenaline. Big, wide eyes too, full of blood and victory. Caesar is dead.

He doesn’t say anything, just smashes his face against Boone’s, their lips barely connecting, just a little bit at the side with a scrape. Mouth open still and his perfectly straight teeth getting everywhere. Butch takes his face between his hands, looks at him through the sunglasses. 

“I fucking love you man!”

“I-I’m not gay,” he manages to stutter out.

“Neither am I!” Just as soon, Butch is back on his feet, dashing off to find another target in his exuberance. 

When Boone manages to catch his breath, sit up, he can just about make out Butch on top of Tate through the cloud of dust that got kicked up. They stay down much longer, a tangle of limbs that keeps shifting around. 

Well, the two of them are awfully good friends, after all.


	9. For the Unseen (Butch/M!LW)

There would always be time for this. The slow press of his body against Butch's, whispers between them, as loud as shouting is they listened right, and the warmth of a pulse that refused to give in. Some people sputter and fade into oblivion. Sometimes Tate wished he could be one of them, but not with Butch's mouth at his neck.

"We should get moving," Butch said. 

But he didn’t really mean it because instead of leaving, he pushed Tate back against the wall of the barely-holding-on-since-the-end-of-the-world shack. With every slight movement the structure creaked around them, threatening collapse. Little light splashed in through the dust-caked windows. It was brightest where one of the panes had cracked to pieces, fanned out across the floor like icicles in the desert. The glass crunched under their boots as they tried to maneuver. 

“Maybe you should move me then, Butch?” Tate slotted his leg between Butch’s two, ground against him hard enough to make the brunet gasp something fierce. Grabbing at the front of Butch’s leather armor, Tate tried to work the buckles loose. He felt like he should be better at the undressing part than he actually was. They used to think the vault suits were cumbersome, but armor was even worse. Too bad they’d sort of, kind of, prioritized not dying. 

They’d already come across the men with golden bulls on their red banners. Whoever they were, couldn’t be any worse than the Brotherhood. But the way things went in the Wastes, they were probably not any better either. 

“Why you always gotta be a such little bitch, Nosebleed?” Butch grabbed him by the hips and flipped him around so he was facing the wall. Tate’s fingers came away from Butch’s buckles with an almost painful scrape as they caught against metal and leather. 

Laying his full weight against Tate’s back, Butch still wasn’t strong enough to actually pin the other man down. Everything could be reversed in an instant if they wanted. Just generally, Tate didn’t want it like that. “Because you like it.”

Tate thrust backwards best he could against Butch’s groin, trying to coax him forward. Pushing forward, Butch crashed into him hard enough that Tate’s face smashed against the wall. They were lucky the whole shack didn't pitch over on impact.

“Shit, Tate,” Butch sounded genuinely worried. “You didn’t hurt your nose, did you?”

Tate laughed, “Nah, love. I’m okay.” 

“Okay,” Butch’s hand smoothed down the center of his back, all the way to the waistband of Tate’s armor. Pulling at the band, Butch drew Tate away from the wall before throwing him back against it, this time without fucking with his face. His hips followed, pressing so roughly against Tate’s ass the blond could feel Butch hard against him. 

“Come on, fuck me already,” Tate taunted. “I know you want to.”

“Always wanna.” Butch moved Tate’s hair off of the back of his neck so he could kiss just there before fidgeting with the buttons at the front of Tate’s pants. With the flap open, they both worked to push Tate’s pants down far enough for Butch to work his fingers inside. They were maybe too dry, nothing was really at hand, but that was alright enough. Tate didn’t really mind. Though, it was going to be a fuck of a lot harder to get Butch’s cock in there if they couldn’t find something. 

For the time being, Tate found it difficult to really focus on the next steps. What with the way Butch’s two fingers thrust inside him and with his other hand stroking Tate’s cock in a hurried rhythm. There were about ten other things Tate wanted but getting them all lined up in a row was going to be tough. He just barely registered the way sweat slicked off Butch’s skin and then against his own neck. Arizona was a bit of a bitch. Everywhere was. 

“You sure are taking your sweet time. Oh, shit.” Tate pressed his cheek against the wall as Butch’s fingers continued to spear into him. Yeah, well, fine, this was fine just as it was. Could be better, but Tate would take this.

Just as he was starting to feel blissfully unaware of his legs, Tate felt Butch’s fingers slide out. He was about to curse up a storm, screeching that if Butch didn’t finish what he started Tate would cut off those fingers so he could never pull that shit again, when he felt the slide of Butch’s lubricated cock against his ass. 

“You were gonna say something, Nosebleed?”

Tate groaned. Yes, yes, get on with it already. “Just how much I want your cock.”

Butch continued to slide against the curve of his ass, not yet trying to penetrate. The fucking teasing was getting out of hand. “If you fucking want it so bad maybe you should show me?”

“Fuck,” Tate was coming up just to the edge of breaking. “How?”

“Spread for me, show me where you want it.” 

Tate didn’t miss the way Butch’s lips pressed against his neck right after he spoke. 

Spreading his legs the best he could, Tate made due with the restrictions they had imposed on themselves. With his pants only pulled down his thighs, he could only move so much. Reaching around, he grabbed at his ass, pulling himself open for Butch. Must’ve looked a lewd thing like that. Didn’t care one bit. Tate tried looking over his shoulder at Butch, but couldn’t quite catch sight of his face. 

“Are you always so easy?” Butch asked.

And the response, “Yes.”

Because when it came to Butch he was. Always had been. Promised to always be in the future. Fucking committed to it. Bought some matching rings that must’ve come off of some matching corpses to prove it and everything. 

Blissfully, Butch finally took pity on him, sliding in with practiced ease until Tate nearly wept from relief. They didn’t speak again, using their mouths for other pursuits. If he bent his neck at just the right angle, Tate could catch at Butch. Smile, draw him forward. But most of all he liked the hands at hips, the press of Butch’s cock inside him, the low way their bodies warmed each other even more in the unrelenting heat of day. 

There would always be time for this. At long as Tate lived and Butch did too. While they were together, they weren’t going to let the other down. Not again.

\--

Somewhere after Chicago, but well before Arizona, Butch’s laser rifle fell to pieces. At first they tried to hold on to the scraps, hoping to find other bits along the way to make a shoddy repair. But after a couple hundred miles of nothing, they gave up hope. Butch tossed the thing into a heap of bones. Between them they joked that was the best place for a gun that had made a lot of corpses. In a morbid sort of way, Tate said when he broke down, Butch would have to toss him just the same way. 

With a sad look in his eyes, Butch then kissed each of Tate’s curled fists. Tate could barely take that.

Instead of the rifle, Butch was trying to make due with a 10mm they had managed to find. Easier to get parts for that too, but Butch didn’t like it as much as he did the laser. Only one sort of people carried energy weapons and they knew well enough to see the signs of Brotherhood and stay well away.

While they walked there was little to talk about. For months they had done nothing but stay at each other’s side, watch their backs for predators that could follow. There was plenty to be afraid of, even more to kill.

Between Chicago and Arizona there was a whole lot of nothing. Then, now, here in the desert, something they wished they hadn’t messed with. 

Little patches of broken tribes would trade for whatever they had scavenged and told Tate about a man named Caesar. He carried the flag with a bull, led men who wore the heads of animals and other men. That he tore apart their villages. Those who remained behind considered themselves to be stupid, having not sacrificed themselves, they now lived with guilt and dirt. 

Butch and Tate didn’t pay the Legion much mind. Wasn’t that much too it. They only crossed paths at a great distance, at least at first. 

\--

A Dog-head came to them at camp. They made the mistake of not shooting him on sight. Said he knew Tate’s name. Dog-head only sounded like he had a bunch of poorly planned schemes and even worse intelligence. Like this Legion wasn’t as big and mighty as they thought themselves to be. 

"The Mighty Caesar wishes to speak to you, Lone Wanderer of the Capital Wasteland." He said the place name like he had no idea what that meant. Where that was.

"Yeah," Butch spoke up. "Well, we don't wanna talk to your boss. Don't want to talk to you either."

Tate stared straight ahead into the licking flames, silently hoping the Legion spy would go up in smoke. Didn't need this kind of trouble, not now. But they sure as shit weren't going anywhere. The plan was to keep going West until they hit the other ocean. Maybe they were gonna be the only two people alive to see them both. That map that Brotch had in one of his Old World books that showed the two: Atlantic, Pacific. Whole lot of a place called United States of America in between. What a meaningless accomplishment that would be, to cross it all. Just the sort of shit Tate loved, empty gestures between him and Butch.

"If you don't come of your own volition, Caesar is prepared to take you by force." Dog-head stood over them like he was someone important. Really he was just an asshole with a voice deeper than his scrawny frame who wouldn't sit down, or better yet, quit bothering two guys who just wanted to be left the fuck alone. 

Butch twirled Toothpick between his fingers, weaving it in and out, scraping against his skin but never cutting. "Assholes with bigger guns than you thought the same thing."

Before Butch could draw his pistol, Dog-head was well enough gone. Tate sighed and leaned against his husband, watching the sparks meld with the stars above.

\--

It wasn't until they saw the Legion break a tribe that they thought of Dog-head again, that they thought any of this was worth their time. 

Twin Arrows looked like ash and flames. And it sounded like children dying. The sign out front of the settlement said Welcome, smeared with blood and waste. Sign was enough to warn others from approaching, to flash their tiny Legion cocks too.

This wasn't their battle, nothing to get involved in. Tate never liked playing hero, besides, he was shit at it. Proved that time and time again. Got his pop killed that way, Charon too. That girl that almost sort of looked like him. What was her name? He can't even remember now. Butch could have gotten killed too, instead he just got punched in his gorgeous face a couple of times.

Tate shouldn't have tried to play hero.

But he could hear the screaming and it seemed even worse to do nothing.

"Butch," Tate started. Beside him, Butch had already got his pistol drawn.

Even if the Legion aren't legion the two of them couldn't take that many men with just a few clips of a 10mm and Tate's taped up fists. But they could improvise, make things up as they went along. And somehow the Legion got the Lone Wanderer earmarked, but it wasn't entirely clear that Dog-head knew which one of them was which. Didn't matter really. 

"I know, Tate. We'll just fuck them up a little."

"Let me talk first."

Butch hesitated, but tucked the 10mm away. As they approached the noise, Tate re-wrapped his fists just in case. When they were ready, he stuck his hands in his pockets to hide them. 

As they got closer, the screams died down into sobs. Tate increased his pace. If they didn't get their soon, there would be no one left. He thought of a bunch of different plans. One of them was bound to work. Or at least change the world around them. Maybe that was the best they could ever hope for.

Men's bodies hung limp on upright crosses hastily shoved into the dirt. Most of them would topple over before the night was through, coming down on the bodies they were meant to support. What was meant as warning only drew attention to the frailty of those who thought themselves kings and monsters.

Butch lit a cigarette. Maybe to have something to do with his hands and his mouth.

The pile of corpses rose like a blemish on the earth. A pink-red-dark boil that needed to be popped, drained. Tate had to look away from it. Otherwise he'd spend his energy trying to figure out the tangle of meat, sort it back into bodies.

A man wearing the head of another man approached them, a massive club on his back. Tate didn't fear men, particularly those in fucking stupid costumes. "You came to the wrong place, at the wrong time."

Tate kind of wished he did smoke, so he could do something dramatic like tap the ash off onto the Double-man's boots. They looked all old, scuffed up, like they needed repair. This Legion was falling apart at the seams. A tattered banner whipping in the wind. Why couldn’t anyone else see it?

"Fuck, man, don't you even talk to each other?" The stench of flesh hanging in the air made him want to puke. Maybe right onto Double-man's shoes because they couldn't get any fucking worse. "We're kind of a big deal."

With the second face it was impossible to tell what the giant of a man was thinking, if anything. Maybe he was just real big and real dumb, the mask trying to hide his idiot face. "Lone Wanderer."

Tate was starting to suspect they didn't actually know his name. They only thought they knew things that would be forever lost to them.

But he saw, he saw the way the Legion ripped at a dark-haired women's clothing as she was dragged away from the pile of corpses. She screamed so fiercely, kicking, hissing, spitting. The way she fought was enough for Tate to know there was something even worse for her than to be burned on the pyre, strung up on crosses.

"I want her," Tate gestured to the woman, just before she was pulled into a trailer that had all its windows boarded. "Now."

"You do not make requests of Caesar, Profligate of the Capital." His voice made something quake inside Tate. But he wasn't about to admit to that. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and said it again.

"I want her. And old Dog-head made it sound like Caesar is way more interested in us than we are in him."

"She is now under Caesar's protection. You may purchase later, if you are so inclined."

Tate's blood boiled in his veins. Protecting someone didn't mean abusing the shit out of them before selling them off to the highest bidder. Through the metal of the trailer, he could still hear her shriek.

"I'll buy her right fucking now, bring her to me!" Tate roared. If only his hands weren’t shaking so bad.

Laughter from under the helmet. "You will learn how the world works here, Profligate of the Capital. It does not bend to your whim."

Her screams died out. Tate knew then he had failed again. Balling his hands into fists, he prepared to strike. At least, he wanted to. But this much he knew now, through the armor, through the mask, and the physique too, he couldn't take Double-man like this. Butch couldn't either with the scant rounds they had. Everyone else was already meat.

"Tell Caesar he can send his men after us. I'll make tools from their bones. Sell them to grandmas to do their fucking needlepoint, safe in their homes. I will destroy him." Tate shook with rage as the words fell into the dirt.

Double-man laughed. Said he would give them a head start if they liked. But they were just little boys, after all. Caesar had misjudged them as men.

\--

They didn't run. Seemed too undignified, though Tate really did wonder sometimes what the point of dignity was. Walking out of Twin Arrows was just as anxiety provoking as walking in. 

Just East of Flagstaff, they passed a single man on a lone cross. Tate couldn't bear to look at him for long. Butch put his arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, letting Tate bury his face at his neck as they passed. That the man had blond hair that fell over his face was enough. The wire run through his muscles, up his neck, propping his head up, keeping his dark, dead, eyes open wide, that was too much.

\--

The Legion came to them at night, intent to take them, not to kill them. That was clear. Tate and Butch were things of value after all. Well, at least the Lone Wanderer was, though Tate was pretty sure neither of them were who the Legion really wanted. They wanted stories, ghosts, symbols. They didn't really want Tate.

Four men came in skirts with machetes in their fists. Tate was already half asleep, curled up against Butch's chest while he smoked his last cigarette of the night. Maybe the Legion thought they were quiet, but they made enough noise running towards their camp that Tate was ready by the time the first malnourished boy got to them.

"Three, two-" Tate counted down against Butch's jaw. "One."

Springing up, Tate knocked the first to the ground, his weapon skittering away across the packed dirt. Tate brought his fists up and punched the kid so hard in the eye he was sure that it popped, his fist came away sort of wet. The kid screamed like it too, trying to protect his face rather than fight back. With the first so obviously incapacitated, Tate scrambled to his feet to pick out another Legionary.

Butch's bullets were the only sound of gunfire. Who didn't use guns in a case like this? Well, Tate didn't but he had Butch for that. It was too dark to get a good look at the one Butch shot, but Tate heard him when he hit the ground.

"Nice shot, love."

"You could maybe punch in a few more faces, Nosebleed. I ain't made of bullets you know," Butch shouted back.

Tate was already charging toward another target. This one held his machete forward, well out in front of his body. None of these fucks knew how to fight, not really. With his weapon so loosely held, Tate easily knocked it aside before wrapping his arms around the boy's waist and taking him to ground. When Tate heard the whimpers of the one who has lost his eye, he did the merciful thing and snapped this one's neck. Just took his face between his hands and twisted so sharply. The crack was loud; he had looked afraid.

There was another noise too, a whirling, horrid thing that Tate couldn't quite remember hearing before. Like, mechanical? Yeah, like a machine that didn't work too well. An old robot. Fuck, robots.

But when Tate turned there was no robot. Just a Legionary with some sort of melee weapon that buzzed, a saw? Some sort of saw that smelled like smoke and gasoline when it ran. 

Butch had dropped his empty pistol, had Toothpick out instead. The difference in reach between the two weapons was too much. Butch twirled away from the saw once, twice, slashed deep and red against the Legionary's skin. But it wasn't enough. The third swipe of the saw cut Butch down the middle, got clean through his leather armor. Coming apart like a flower.

Tate didn't hesitate, ran full speed ahead to knock the Legionary to the ground, even if that meant hastily pushing him onto Butch. At least Butch was screaming and cursing, meant that he was still alive at the bottom of the pile. Tate managed to pull the saw loose from the Legionary's grip. Held it to the back of his neck until it messily cracked through his spine. When the body below him went limp, he knew it was enough. Wrecked the ripper though.

Pulling the corpse off of Butch, Tate's hands went to work pulling away the ruined armor. He knew well enough where all the buckles and straps were and it came away easily enough. Butch had stopped cursing, but that wasn't actually a good thing. His tanned skin looked pale, even in the low light. While Butch’s face was soaked in blood, Tate was pretty sure that was from the Legionary he had just diced. 

Fuck. Fuck!

The wound across Butch’s chest was massive, running over his pectoral muscle and down all the way to his hip. His pants had been torn as well. Tate rolled down the waistband until he found the other edge of the gash. 

"Yeah, hey, Butch now would be an excellent time for you to start talking shit or something cause I really gotta know you're with me."

With the wordless screaming well over, Tate was starting to panic. The only response Tate got was a low groan. Well, it was something. To fill the silence he just kept talking to himself.

"I'm going to go over here now, get my pack, yeah? Because I'm gonna have to stich that up. And I know you don't like me doctoring and all. You think I'm pretty shit at it. I am pretty shit at it, but I'm also about your only option. I sort of, kind of, promise not to shoot you full of too many stims." Tate laughed awkwardly at himself. He didn't want to, but he had to look at the wound, the way it fluttered as Butch kept on breathing. Had to remind himself the breathing was good.

"Too bad we never really became alcoholics, Butch. Then we might have vodka or something. I could maybe disinfect it better. But I'm pretty sure I can't pour beer into it. I know that's wrong, at least."

With shaking hands, Tate took the needle and thread from his pack. With nothing to clean Butch out, he had to hope the stims sealed everything up before infection could take hold. He had to hope a lot of things went right. Maybe he should have focused on making the stitches neat, maybe he should have tried harder not to cry like a fucking mess into Butch's open wound. But the hole closed, little by little as Tate worked the needle.

"You know it's really fucking dumb of you to get hit like that. Using that laser rifle made you all soft I guess. Or maybe I've been going too easy on you. Should stop that. Really kick the shit out of you next time we fight." It wasn't until he was nearly done with the fine stitches at Butch's hip that Tate even noticed the blood coming from his own face. He didn't bother wiping it away, usually that just made things worse.

A dose of the stimpak at the top, one at the bottom. Tate wasn't sure about the med-x. Butch was just so quiet. But he wasn't dead. Survival was a start. Maybe survival was the end of all things too, just breathing.

\--

Morning came, Butch woke. It wasn't the end of the world, even if it might have felt like it the night before. Tate didn't say anything about how he thought Butch might die because in the light of day things didn't seem so bad. Butch woke, he smiled, ruffled Tate's hair. Said next time they found a place inside to spend the night, someplace with running water, he'd cut it. They didn't have a second set of armor, so Tate gave Butch the top of his set, kept the pants. They had to round the rest out with dingy tees and jeans.

Tate kept it well to himself that without Butch he'd be adrift. But he sort of got the feeling Butch knew, maybe things were the same all around, the way Butch held his hand as they walked.

On the West side of Flagstaff there was another cross, another man with wire-doll joints. With dark hair and light eyes. Tate couldn't look at that one either. 

"You're bleeding on my coat." Butch had waited until the sacrificial warning was well behind them before bringing it up. 

"Yeah, I know."

There would be time enough to reach the Pacific. Tate kept telling himself that. To see the wash of blue in Butch's eyes and scream fuck you to an entire continent. 

\--

They saw Dog-head one last time in Arizona. Saw him once after too. In Nipton. By then Butch had a laser pistol and plenty of rounds. Had a bullet pulled out of his brain too. Tate had a powerfist and a bellyful of anger for how they had been fucked with, over and over again. They killed Dog-head in Nipton. But they saw him one last time in the hellhole of Arizona. 

Like before, he came alone at night. Like before, they should have shot him where he stood. But he didn’t attack first. Tate didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“Caesar will be triumphant, Lone Wanderer.” Dog-head didn’t sit. Just stood on the other side of the fire like he fancied himself a villain. Didn’t mean much, sometimes Tate thought he was the villain too.

“No, he won’t.” Tate was sure enough of that. He and Butch might not be the ones to take down a Legion, but someone would be. Caesar’s world was not one in which anyone would wish to live. That was for fucking sure.

“Caesar still wishes you for an ally. But I think he is wrong in his assessment.”

Butch blew smoke up into the air. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“He can, however, absolve you of your sins, Profligates of the Capital.”

“And what sins are those?” Tate only had his sins left to fall back on. Those people he couldn’t save, those he didn’t want to save. But that was alright, because Butch was still here. Made all the fuck ups sting a little less to have Butch’s arm around his shoulders.

Vulpes Inculta of Caesar’s Legion, Greatest of his Frumentarii, didn’t say it out loud. Probably some of those absolutions were for him too.


	10. Hole in the Moon (Butch/Tate)

If they sat too close to the broken window, the rain splattering in burned their skin. Butch’s forearm was already pockmarked with red welts from it. Not once, not once between the Capital and the Mojave had Butch and Tate encountered burning rain. But somehow, in this desert around the biggest fucking body of fresh, drinkable water they had seen since DC, the water that fell from the sky burned.

Tate couldn't fucking believe it. Part of it made him think that they were somehow responsible. Like they had fucked with the planet one time too many times and made the whole continent askew. Knocked it right on its ass. Yeah, they were real fucking losers like those who dropped the bombs two-hundred years ago. That would be fucking fitting. 

"Shit, fuck," Butch just kept on cursing under his breath, pacing the cramped room. Probably was trying to find something to break, but the meager furniture had been wrecked long ago, everything else carted off by scavengers. 

They were supposed to meet up with Cass and Lily, head up to Jacobstown. Arcade was gonna meet them there. The Doctor had been awfully on edge lately, ever since Butch took him to visit the Boomers.

But now they were holed up in a shack for fuck knew how long waiting for acid to stop falling from the sky. Where the water came in through cracked glass, not only did it burn, it made the dust it hit cake up into muddy patches. Great, just great.

"Hey, Butch?" Tate started.

Butch snapped back, "What, Nosebleed?"

Tate hit him square in the jaw, pulled his punch, though. Didn't want to hurt Butch too bad. 

Couldn’t waste the stims they had been stocking up for their trip to Caesar’s house. Tate knew exactly how many they had, twenty-seven, and the next day that the caravans would bring more, the eighth of next month. And how much they would cost, 126 caps for a lot of ten, Tate’d been promised. Then a little more on the side for Butch’s jet. They just had to make it through this final stretch, before they could see the ocean. 

"What the fuck was that for?" Butch held the side of his face. Damn, he was supposed to hit back.

So Tate tackled him, hit him hard at the hips and took Butch to the floor. Tate raised his fist like he was about to smash it back into Butch's face, brought it almost all the way down too, just inches away from his fucking beautiful nose. But when Butch didn't flinch, he gave up the act.

"We're stuck here, so-"

Butch cut him off, grabbing Tate by his narrow hips and flipping them both over. The impact of his back hitting the floorboards sharply knocked the wind out of Tate. His ribs rattled in his chest. The pressure of Butch’s hips against his own, until it felt like they could smash through the floorboards, into the dust below.

Tate grabbed at the hem of Butch’s stained tee, pulling it up and over his head. His hands went right for the ripper scar across his chest, Tate never got over how thick it was, deep too, how he could press his fingers into it still, feel a heat that was more than Butch’s skin. Like climbing inside his chest. Maybe it was morbid. They were morbid. 

Taking Tate’s wrist, Butch moved Tate’s hand away from his chest, pinned it to the floor instead. 

“We’re still here,” Butch’s lips pressed against Tate’s as he spoke. Spinning words that might have been lies. Tate always worried they were lies. “We’re still alive.”

They kissed as their covered hips rolled together. Up, down, slower now. Butch chasing the anger out of him. Tate sucking the frustration from Butch’s mouth. Teeth at Tate’s bottom lip as Butch bit. His hand still pinned, like Butch had forgotten about it. 

“Do you want to fight still?” Butch teased. Through the layers of jeans and leather Tate could still feel how hard Butch was. Course, this had been his intention all along, way to pass the time between tragedies. 

Tilting his head back against the floor, Tate exposed his neck, let Butch bite at that too. Wanted to be marked everywhere. Black and blue and possessed. It wasn’t sharp, the way Butch bit, not like the others who tossed him about, ripped him open without even looking inside, because Tate let them. Butch knew him, but that didn’t keep him from caring. From wanting to care.

“Course I still wanna fight,” Tate’s heartbeat felt fast in his chest, like he was going to run out of beats too young. It would just stop ticking. “Always will want to fight you, Butch.”

The smile Butch returned lit up the room, darkened as it was by the storm. “Course, Nosebleed.”

Butch started work on the fly to Tate’s leather armor, leaving the top on for now. Peeling it open, he reached for Tate’s erection, freeing it from the confines of the armor. He stroked it lazily a few times, waiting for Tate to whine in retaliation, before covering the head with his wet mouth. Sucked it a little at the tip first, then deeper, more. Made his mouth all wet, slick. Kept on taking it until Tate was utterly consumed. 

Tate tangled his fingers in Butch’s hair, almost long enough now that he could forget about the bullet. Couldn’t forget the seven days Butch’d spent dead though. 

“Yeah, you like that, cocksucker,” Tate started, curling his lips. “Does your wife know why you go home with your lips all swollen?”

He could feel Butch growl at the words, vibrating against Tate's cock, a feralness to which Tate had long ago grown addicted. Was why he liked the fights in the first place, even when they were maybe too young to know they would end up here. 

Releasing Tate’s cock from his mouth, Butch kept on it with his hand. Better for talking this way, better for fighting. “What makes you think I’ve got a wife?” Butch played along.

“Ring on your finger. Gives it away.” Tate grabbed at Butch’s hand, pulled it to his mouth, ran his tongue along the digit in question. 

Moving his hand away, Butch crawled back, slid Tate’s pants off his hips, down his thighs. Left dry kisses against his legs as he worked, right down Tate’s shins. 

“She won’t know,” Butch started at his own jeans, leaving Tate to work off the rest of his armor on his own. The pieces came away, stickier than Tate realized as it peeled from his skin.

“You’ll keep me secret, then? Your side piece?” Tate crawled forward, the floorboards hard against his knees. Wanted to crawl right up into Butch’s lap, smother him with his body. Make Butch as unhinged as Tate felt just in his presence, in this too small space they were forced into occupying. “Is it because I’m a whore? Is that why you like me?”

Butch rifled around in his pack until he found the slim bottle of lube, uncapping it and spreading it over his fingers first. “Yeah, cause you’re my pretty slut, right Tate?”

“Always,” Tate breathed, wrapping his arms around Butch’s neck, pulling himself best he could into his husband’s lap. Waited for Butch’s fingers to breach him. Slick inside and open him up. Didn’t have to wait long, needy as Butch was too. Strange escalation, where before there was little, nothing really other than boredom and frustration. But now Tate needed this, so did Butch, caught up in each other as they had always been. 

“Need you,” Butch said it first, though Tate thought the same. 

Nodded his head furiously, curled his nails into the flesh at Butch’s back. “Fuck me.”

Tate groaned as Butch sheathed himself, fit in so perfectly. Should’ve after all this time. Still made water prick at the corner of Tate’s eyes. He couldn’t explain why, didn’t hurt or anything. Just felt full as he curled his legs under himself, used them to push up, bring himself back down on Butch’s length. Tate thought more of Butch’s hands at his hips, holding him, clawing at him like he’d slip through Butch’s fingers even now. The years between them not enough. Because shit had happened.

Shit had happened that Tate couldn’t take back. That Butch couldn’t take back either. He'd wanted things to be different, when all he had to worry about in the world was him and Butch and Amata. A world where Butch would have been his only. But they couldn’t. It was done.

“Say you love me, Butch.”

Turning his eyes up, Butch looked almost confused. Like Tate had said something strange. 

“More than anything, Tate. You should know that. I love you more than anything else in this fucked up place.”

Tate nodded, keeping up pace, pushing down when Butch thrust up. “Okay, okay,” he managed between breaths. Quicker now.

Butch’s hand laced around Tate’s cock, fingers spread just a little. Knowing what worked, what didn’t. Lubricant on his digits, but not too much. A little hard, rough.

Tate buried his face against Butch’s shoulder as he came. Dark hair brushing against his cheek. Almost didn’t matter. They almost didn’t matter, until shit kept intervening. That’s what Tate wanted, to stop mattering so much. 

Butch came, made louder noises than Tate, all sweaty and satisfied and guttural. So familiar that it crept under Tate’s skin, spread out like a sheen. Flickers of other, wasted opportunities. 

Didn’t even notice how Butch was kissing the side of his head, then cheek, then lips. “I’m gonna get a leg cramp if you don’t get off my lap, Tate.”

Nodding, Tate disentangled himself, sliding back onto the floor and stretching his legs too. Felt all wet, but that was okay. He liked it.

“Are you alright?” Butch asked, pulling back on his jeans. He stood to finish putting on his pants, before grabbing his shirt. Tate watched in silence as his scar disappeared from view. Just the barest hint of it peeking out from under Butch’s collar. 

Tate tilted his head to one side, fussing with his pipboy, looking over messages he’d already read dozens of times before. Long strings of conversation between him and Butch as they got pulled in different directions by the strings of circumstance. 

“You don’t feel anything, for Arcade, right?” Easier to keep his eyes on the pipboy, looking at old messages instead of on Butch.

271257 > 130758: okay its done  
130758 > 271257: And that legion spy that’s been tailing you?  
271257 > 130758: yeah. he saw through the window they’re so fucking loud  
271257 > 130758: probably had a wank about it  
130758 > 271257: And what about Arcade?  
271257 > 130758: i dont think he suspects anything  
271257 > 130758: looks real down on himself rn

Butch laughed, drowning out of the sound of the rain against the shoddy roof. “This was your plan, Nosebleed, naw. Not a thing. I guess he’s an alright guy. But fuck, I got you. It’s always been you.”

Smiling, Tate looked up from his wrist. “If you stop loving me, I’ll murder you.” 

“I’m not worried.”


	11. Walking Dreamers (Butch/M!LW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's kill Caesar!

"Last time we did something like this," Butch paused to blow out smoke from his now-finished cigarette, "you said fucking before would be jinxing it."

Tate sprawled out across the huge bed in the Lucky 38 Presidential Suite, arms and legs taking up as much space as possible. In the other room he could hear Lily snoring and snorting in her sleep. Not that Arcade breathed any quieter, just had a smaller lung capacity, so his noise was proportional.

"Well excuse my presumptuousness." Tate splayed his legs, an invitation to Butch. 

He hadn't bothered to get dressed after his shower, just throwing on some boxers in case there were unexpected guests. There were always unexpected guests in the Mojave. Hell, in the Capital too, back in the Vault. Their lives were lived in between interruptions concerning other people's problems.

"So is it a change of heart?" Butch climbed on top of Tate, a hand on either side of his head, his legs between Tate's tightening thighs. "Or you don't care if I get myself offed, again."

Tate reached for the hem of Butch's shirt. Hiked it up just far enough to put one hand against his ripper scar and one against where the skin was still pristine.

"Just don't think Caesar is gonna put up as much of a fight as the Enclave did. Besides," Tate frowned, catching his fingers in Butch's scar tissue. They both knew well enough it didn't hurt, but Butch still hissed. Aroused hissed, good hissed. "Fuck-all good that did me anyway. I was a turnip for months after the assault on the purifier."

Butch leaned over, kissing the side of Tate's neck, right where his dark hair ended. Still kind of weird to see him with black hair instead of blond. They'd been bleaching it out for so long. Tate said out here, in the Mojave, no one knew his dad. No one knew he looked like Doc Zhang's son. No one knew Doc Zhang. But somehow they knew the Lone Wanderer. So he decided not to be the Lone Wanderer anymore. Just "that Courier's friend." Butch corrected him, "that Courier's husband."

Leaving his nose pressed against Tate's neck, Butch breathed, just breathed. Because sometimes it was hard to remember how they even lasted this long.

"So you're not worried I'll be a turnip?" Butch asked, half-serious.

Tate shifted beneath him, let out a little, hurried noise at the friction between their groins. All of the hairs on his neck stood straight up. His cheeks got hot. Took a fuckton of self-control on Butch's part not to escalate when he felt Tate get all hard. Butch was already there.

"We're gonna reach the Pacific. Got past how many armies already, Butch?"

Butch laughed, letting his scarred chest tremble against Tate's hands. Bumped his nose against Tate’s as they kissed, open-mouthed and full of shivers. Yeah, they were gonna do shit not accomplished by men in two-hundred years. Together. It didn't start or end with the sea.

\--

Arcade ran out of cigarettes two-thirds of the way to Cottonwood. Should've bought another pack in Freeside. Boone wouldn't cough up any spares. Didn't want to ask Butch. Every time he opened the pack, the Jet canisters next to Butch's cigarettes were visible. The inhalers made Arcade remember his failures. How the others didn't know was beyond him.

It was just flat-out impossible that Tate didn't know. But he said nothing. Maybe he even encouraged Butch's chem addiction. Irresponsible. Then again, it wasn't like Arcade confronted the Courier either. Never seemed to be the right moment, with Tate always buzzing around, or Cass within earshot. Lots of excuses. Arcade could enumerate a whole list of excuses. None of them would help him sleep at night. Taking out Caesar, though, that would be a start.

And after, after Caesar was taken care of, he would talk to Butch about the Jet. Arcade would make this right even though he hadn't been the one to set it wrong.

"Hey, Arcade," Butch clapped him on the shoulder. Had to reach up to do it as Arcade was a good five or so inches taller than Butch. The Courier wore a smile that could blot out the Mojave sun when he wanted to. Bastard might not even know. "You look tense, didn't expect it from you."

Rifling around in his pack, Butch pulled out a cigarette, putting it between his lips and lighting before offering Arcade the box. With the flap of Butch's bag open, Arcade looked into the abyss of Jet canisters, clanking against each other as they kept on walking.

They didn't talk after that. Smoked and walked, Butch’s extra heat at Arcade's side even after the cigarette was used up. Part of him wanted to reach, to touch Butch's hand and mock some level of intimacy they had never reached. Instead, Arcade balled his fists up in his pockets around loose scraps of paper he failed to toss after their usefulness dried up.

Butch pulled away, increasing his pace until he left Arcade behind and caught up with Tate. Throwing his arm over Tate's shoulder, Butch pulled his partner close, seemingly oblivious to the dry heat and dust that otherwise made contact insufferable. They held together over long strides, Butch pressing his nose into Tate's dark hair.

\--

Twenty minutes out from the Cove, Butch checked his 9mm. Not as nice as his laser rifle, not by a long shot, but the rifle didn't fit in a boot. Toothpick was in the other, all warmed up from his skin. Next to him, Tate had nothing, just his fists and this fucking plan that still felt kind of crazy.

He took Tate's face between both his palms, rubbed his thumbs along his cheekbones and tried to think of pretty words to keep them safe. Instead all he could think about was the lines of text on their Pip-boys, a web of plans never spoken aloud. Their plan on how to end this. How to end Caesar. And laced between their careful planning, interspersed notations of shared affection.

130758 > 271257: I’ll love you. Forever. Even if it’s not pretty, this love.

So, twenty minutes outside of Cottonwood Cove, Butch kissed Tate where they knew full well the Legion scouts would see. Tate smiled, whispered "forever."

"Arcade, come with us, yeah?" Butch pulled back from Tate, leaving the last traces of his fingertips against the fine hairs at the back of his neck. "Cass too. Boone, Lily, you're not coming." 

"Like hell," Boone started, spitting into the dirt. "I didn't-"

Butch cut off whatever thin argument Boone was sure to mount. Wouldn't have been very convincing in any case. “No, Boone.”

Tate pulled at the leather cord around his neck, revealing the bauble to which he was shackled. The gold coin hung heavy. Though tarnished, it stood out against the dark leather of his armor. The Mark of Caesar. 

They marched through the Cove, down to the docks. Among the stench, thick all around them, lay bodies, women and children still viable for sale. Butch kept his eyes straight ahead and his hands off of Tate ambling beside him. Couldn't reach for his cigarettes either. Butch had to settle for chewing on his lower lip.

"Quite the set-up, dontcha think?" Butch asked to no one in particular. Behind him, Arcade grunted. Up ahead, the Legionary exhaled but said nothing. "Real marketplace, right, Tate?"

Tate shrugged, "I could do better."

Butch knew well enough Tate wasn't looking either.

They reached the boat, started climbing in, one by one. Arcade first, then Butch, then Tate. Cass stood on the dock, watching the boat bounce against the shoddy pier. The sun was already going down. They wouldn't reach Fortification Hill before darkness well set in. 

"I can't do this," Cass rolled her hands together on the pier. "I'm sorry, Six, I just can't."

Good. Butch thought. Good. Cass was a great actor, standing all rigid, her eyes darting from side to side as she shifted her weight. "I can't help you do this."

Butch looked away, out over the blackening Colorado. "Do what you have to, Cass. But we're going ahead."

130758 > 271257: Tell Cass to wait at the Cove, leave her a message on the terminal. Don’t say it out loud. But tell her to wait thirty minutes. Then shoot her way back out. Follow to Fortification Hill once the Cove is cleared.

Nodding, Cass turned away. It was hard enough to keep up the act, but they had to. 

Butch sat closer to Arcade than he did to Tate, let his leg rub up against the doctor's after the sun set. They listened to the water slosh around the boat's hull and Tate fidget with the straps on his leather armor. 

It would have been nice to hear Cass' first shot ring out across the Cove.

\--

Cass spent a damn time with her fingers threaded through the chicken wire pens, watching Caesar's captives huddle in dust-soaked corners. No one bothered her, much. Left behind or not, she was still part of Butch's circle, and there was nothing the Legion fucks wanted more right now than that boy. Except maybe the other boy, the one whose name was so big it crossed the country long before he did. Didn't know it when Cass first met them, all those months back when she had nothing but unkept promises to her long-gone father.

Tate told her back then, at the Mojave Outpost, that he knew what it was like to walk in the shadow of a man whose name no one would remember in thirty years. She sniped back that a kid like him was unlikely to know anything, about anyone.

She waited thirty minutes until she was sure that the boat headed out to the Fort was far enough gone they wouldn't hear her shotgun. When one of the Legionaries stood by her side and informed her "Caesar's patience would not last forever." He touched her hair; she unloaded into his stomach. 

Bits of meat flew around the barrel of her gun, thick, hot against her hands. Wasn't the first legionary she'd killed. 

Cass smashed the butt of her shotgun against the cage lock until it broke apart. She listened for footsteps. Shooting at such close range had muffled some of the noise from her shotgun, but not all of it. Others would find her position, and soon.

But there were two saving graces. The first was the sound of the sniper's bullet that stopped the approaching footsteps before Cass even got a good look at them. The second was Lily's voice booming across the camp. Loud, addled, utter sweetness to Cass' ears. 

Sonofabitch. Those kids had been right.

\--

At Fortification Hill, their guide took Arcade's laser pistol, Butch's laser rifle, and a whole lot of nothing from Tate. Everything about this made Arcade's skin crawl. And Cass bailing on them at the last second? Didn't sit right at all.

The Legionary grabbed Butch's pack, flipping it over, dumping out empty Jet containers only to kick them into the dirt.

"You are as weak, as debauched as the frumentarii say, Courier."

Butch only shrugged his shoulders. "We all have vices."

Sneering, the Legionary listed Butch's sins. "Chems, alcohol, gambling."

"And sodomy," Butch added, "that's my favorite one. Heard that it's popular around here too." 

Bad enough they were here, surrounded by dozens of Caesar's men. Worse to mock them openly.

Arcade touched the rim of his glasses, trying to find anything to do with his hands that wasn't strangling Butch. Tate was keeping quiet, though. His lips pressed together and his hands loose at his sides. His eyes followed the little boys in miniature Legion gear running up the slope of the hill.

The three men were pat down again at the entrance to Caesar’s tent. Butch wore a smile the whole time; Tate a frown. There was a tension between the two men that hadn’t been there before. An anxiety that materialized from nowhere. Maybe a growing seed of it on the boat, as they crossed the Rubicon. Arcade stopped himself from laughing at the vulgarity of his own joke. As if the Colorado were something more than it was. As if there were symbolism there.

When all three came up clean, they were ushered inside the tent, Legion all around. A suffocating patchwork blanket of old-world mistakes and new-world ideology.

“Welcome, Courier, Lone Wanderer.” Caesar shifted in his seat, waiting for the two men, the important ones, the ones who were not Arcade, to approach. “I see you have had a change of heart.”

“You have something I need,” Butch would have taken a drag of his cigarette just then. Arcade was sure of it, but they had all been fleeced down.

“And what might that be?”

Tate kept looking to the side of the tent, where a blindfolded man knelt in the dirt. His shoulders shook, but he made no noise. His hands were bound behind his back. When he leaned too far forward, a Legionary grabbed him by the collar of his grimey shirt and pulled him back into position. Tate couldn’t keep his eyes off of him, played with the Mark of Caesar the whole time he stared.

Benny.

“I have this.” Butch pulled the Platinum Chip from his pocket. “I have the key, you have the door.”

“Indeed,” Caesar smiled, leaning back in his chair. 

Arcade’s palms were sweating. A steady stream of under-researched variables with unknown outcomes.

“I will allow you access to the bunker. But there is something I need from you. I take it you understand what lies beneath this hill, Children of the East?”

“That’s not our name,” Tate finally spoke, locking his eyes with Caesar. “You never call us by name.”

“Is that really what you want, Lone Wanderer? To be called by your name?”

Tate shrugged. “I know about you too, Caesar. I know what you need.”

“And what is that?”

Tate looked at Benny, rather than Caesar. 

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Arcade shifted his weight, ready to run.

“A doctor. A Courier. And me.”

\--

“Tate…” Butch’s pained voice cut through Tate’s fogged thoughts. 

They could do this, this could work.

The Legionaries at Caesar’s side hadn’t yet moved, still waiting for their master’s signal. Like the obedient pets they were. Beyond saving. All of them. Even the little boys along the hill.

“I know what you did, Butch. I,” Tate rubbed at his eyes with one fist. “I know about you and Arcade.”

“What?” Arcade took a step back, only to be met by a Legionary behind him, placing a blade to his throat. 

Good, this was working. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out, Butch? That you could lie to me?” The pitch of his voice rising, the desperation clear.

Caesar rose from his seat. Just a little closer. 

“One of Caesar’s men told me, Butch. He told me everything. How? How could you do this to me?” Had to be convincing, had to be. Had to spin all the double-strands of lies into a rope to hang Caesar. That Legion boy who came to him a week ago, told Tate all about Nellis. Told Tate all about the exact things they wanted Caesar to believe. “I’m giving you up, Butch. Because you promised forever. But this isn’t the life I want. Not anymore.”

“And what about you?” Butch bellowed, “You thought you were helping me when you fucked Benny? What was that, Tate?”

Tate turned just enough to catch Butch’s blue eyes, wide and full of shock. Who would have thought they were such great actors?

“I will care for you, Lone Wanderer. We will care for you. You no longer have to be this man you hate. You will reach your potential.” Caesar placed his hand upon Tate’s shoulder. Like he was Tate’s father. Like he was gonna make everything okay. 

And Tate smiled, because they had already won.

Butch moved first, tackling Arcade to the ground and taking down the man behind him in the process. By the time Butch reached his target, Tate had already spun around, face to face with Caesar. Their time together would be utterly brief. Tate knew his own strength. 

130758 > 271257: They’ll think they tore us apart. Fools.

Maybe there used to be rumors about Caesar, that he could fight hand-to-hand. Tate wasn’t sure, because he didn’t pay much mind to other people’s words in the air. Liked his own words better. So instead of thinking about losing, Tate knew about winning. He took Caesar’s face between his bare hands. He twisted with such force, such momentum, as to snap his neck. The old man crumpled to the floor like a weighted doll, all limbs with a leaden core.

The inside of the tent was so loud, so chaotic. Tate looked out into the cramped space and instead of canvas and dirt, he saw the only other place that had ever been this loud. The inside of the purifier. 

\--

“No, no no no no!” Butch punched just to the side of Arcade’s head, smashing his fist into the face of the Legionary behind him. The knife that the boy-soldier held had already skidded away in the dirt when Butch and Arcade landed on top of him. That was like four-hundred pounds on top of a kid that barely broke a buck-fifty. He was fucked up good.

Arcade took in a ragged gasp of air. “Do you mind telling me what the FUCK is going on?”

Butch grabbed Toothpick from inside his boot, pressing it into Arcade’s hand. “You got no pistol and you’re shit with your fists so please do me a favor here and cut Benny loose.”

“Butch?” Arcade looked confused as fuck. But there wasn’t time to deal with that.

“Cut now, talk later.”

As he rolled back to his feet, Butch got the 9mm from his other boot. It wasn’t great. Not like, laser rifle great, but it was what he had. He focused his attention on the Legionaries furthest from Tate. He had to believe anyone Tate was already grappling with was as good as dead. Just had to keep the other fucks off of him. 

“This was a hell of a plan, Zhang,” Benny called from somewhere across the room. “A gun would have been nice!”

“Use your fucking fists, Benny. You having a gun doesn’t sit well with me,” Butch mocked. “Keep them from getting into the tent.”

Benny growled but dashed past Butch on his way to the tent entrance. “And how exactly do I do that?” 

There was a thump behind Butch. Then a sharp cry of pain from a Legionary as Benny pounded his fist into the guy’s neck.

“Figure something out.” Butch was nearly out of bullets, just two left if he counted right. But the tent had been cleared, short of the one Tate had pinned to the ground. Tate’s thumbs were in his eye sockets, gouging the soft holes of his face. Blood streaked down Tate’s chin and neck. On his fists too, but that blood wasn’t his own. 

“There are three incoming, so someone better hand me a gun!” Benny’s hands shook where the gripped the canvas flap.

A crack took down one Legionary where he stood. His form crumpled to the ground, shaking the other two. There would be more, dozens more. But it was okay, the sniper’s bullet meant the others were here.

“What the fuck was that?” Benny asked.

“Our backup.” Butch tossed Benny the pistol before going to check on Tate.

130758 > 271257: We don’t have to tell Boone a damn thing. He’ll show up when we need him.

\--

Fifty minutes elapsed between the boys departing Cottonwood and Cass loading up Lily and Boone in the boat. They’d have to make up the time. Fifty minutes was a long interval to roll without backup. But the little two-stroke engine on the boat wasn’t gonna get them there any faster.

Lily must have known, compassionate as she was. Took one look at Cass biting at her nails and knew. “Turn off the engine, Jimmy. I can get us there faster. Our boys need us.”

And that nightkin, sweet as could be, always, took up the emergency paddles. Wasn’t pretty, the way the water sloshed around and soaked all their feet, but Lily was right, she was faster rowing than the engine puttering. Cass still bit her nails though. Boone didn’t take his glasses off, even after the sun went down.

“How did you know?” Boone asked her.

Cass put the cigarette into her mouth, but didn’t light it. Lily didn’t like it when any of them smoked. Called them “Deary” and scowled. Problem was, Cass had already torn through all her nails.

“Butch told me to wait thirty, then to clear out the Cove. Follow after. Left me a message on the terminal in the suite. How did you know?”

“Didn’t.”

By the time they reached Fortification Hill, hell had already broken loose. It was alright though, the boys had left plenty of eager Legion lice with empty dance cards waiting for Cass to extend the barrel of her shotgun. Same as the Cove, they started from inside and outside at the same time. Pincer and meet in the middle. 

Those boys did a lot of dumb shit. But they had gotten this one right. 

\--

“Tate, Tate, love,” Butch pushed Tate’s black hair away from his forehead, slick with sweat.

Arcade should have looked away. Should have looked for a way to be helpful. Blood was dripping from Tate’s nose and down his armor. 

“Tilt your head forward, Tate, and spit.” 

Doing as he was told, Tate spit up, watery and red, onto the dirt floor of the tent. The two men huddled together on the ground while Butch pinched Tate’s nose to stem the bleeding. 

Tate tore Casar’s Mark from his neck, breaking the cord and letting it fall.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Butch repeated. Soon enough Tate batted his partner’s hand away and held onto his nose himself.

“Yeah, I’m okay, we gotta keep fighting.”

“Cass and the others are already here.” Butch kissed Tate’s forehead before standing up. “I’m out of a gun, though.”

“Toothpick?” Tate got to his feet. Though the bleeding had stopped, he was still covered in red. The blood was black where it touched his armor.

Butch turned, as if remembering Arcade was there with them. “Do you have my switchblade?”

Arcade reached for his pockets, going through each one until he found it. “This can’t possibly work.”

“It is working,” Butch flicked open the blade before sliding it between his fingers. “It has worked. Look,” he gestured to Caesar's corpse. “Look what we’ve already done.” There was that smile again, lighting up the darkened tent. “Benny, after you.” Butch got into position just behind Benny, ready to storm out of the tent. Tate hung back with Arcade.

“Just don’t get in our way. You already did your job," Tate smiled too, looser than Arcade had ever seen.

Arcade still wasn’t entirely sure what had transpired today, yesterday, last week, two weeks ago, more. He wasn’t sure what the fuck had been happening since that day Butch DeLoria ambled into the Old Mormon Fort, stuck out his hand, and told Arcade his name with that old-world accent, told him that he liked science too.

\--

They burned their way through the remaining bodies. Tate. Butch. Benny, Boone, Cass, Lily. Arcade was there, somewhere. Was a whole lot more there when they caught up to Cass in the center of the Fort. She’d managed to grab their weapons on the way in. They fanned out again, covering as much ground as they could. They scorched the settlement in blood and flesh. Tate watched the light go out behind men’s eyes as he took their lives with his bare hands. Made him breathe real shallow. Reminded him he was still alive.

Butch tackled him to the ground. Out of adrenaline, the instinct too, he nearly clocked Butch right in the face. But his hands were at Tate’s cheeks, and his mouth against his neck, whispers of “our promise, our promise. I love you, I love you.”

Tate relaxed underneath his husband, tried to get Butch’s lips on his. Dirt billowed up in a cloud, getting in his eyes. They smelled like blood, sweat, death. Tate could feel it under his nails, this mixture of destruction. But he could feel Butch too, his chest and hips pinning Tate down, rolling with their shared exhilaration. The sun was coming up over the Colorado. 

“Butch,” Tate bit at Butch’s lip, getting a groan rather than an answer. Butch’s adam’s apple bobbed against his skin. Been a couple of days since his last shave, stubble against his pale face. Made his eyes all the bluer. “I saw the purifier.”

Stilling, Butch planted his hands on either side of Tate’s head. He pulled back just enough that there would be no question of intent or allegiance. “You’re not there. You’re here, with me. We’re a thousand miles away. More.”

Tate nodded, dirt clinging to the back of his scalp. 

Starting with the buckles at Tate’s chest, Butch worked his armor off. Tate mirrored the motions, his fingers sliding in between leather straps, pulling them away from metal buckles. He had to curl forward off the ground for Butch to pull the top off. Pebbles pricked against Tate's back. Butch finished removing his own chestpiece. 

Butch kissed him so wet and fierce that Tate could have sworn he was crying. But there was no reason. It hit, like a rolling wave, that they had killed Caesar. They’d eradicated his men at Fortification Hill like the pests they were upon the desert. For all they had done in five years above ground, this seemed like the greatest feat of them all. Not because Caesar had been the biggest threat, not by a long shot. But because this time they didn’t have to lose everything to win.

Tate laughed as Butch pulled at his pants. 

Against his jaw Butch complained, “too many damn buckles.” 

Tate nodded trying to help best he could with pulling the pants off of his hips. 

“We shouldn’t do it out here,” Butch hung his head, grinning. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Tate ended up holding his pants up as they ran for the closest tent. Free of blood and bodies, they didn’t have to worry. They rolled onto the first cot, Butch slotted in between Tate’s legs. Still too much clothing and too little contact. Tate managed to flip them both over, so he straddled Butch, without falling to the floor. His hands crept to Butch’s waistband, just where his scar disappeared. 

Stripped down to their boxers, Tate held Butch in place with his hands, his hips, his mouth. Tried to swallow up all the hours they spent lying and killing. Make those hours into something beautiful instead. Butch slid his hand down the waistband of Tate’s boxers, worked him open with soaked fingers, the vial of oil retrieved from his pants pocket. It was a joke between them now, that they never knew when, and they were too fucking old now for painful mistakes. They’d still make them, though. 

“Do you think we’re still fucked up, Tate?” But Butch didn’t stop. He slid Tate’s boxers off first, then his own. If he was having a crisis of conscience, his cock hadn’t been informed, still hard and wanting.

Tate slid himself down onto Butch’s cock, waited until he was comfortable, full, before rolling his hips back up. He pressed his palms flat against Butch’s chest, running one finger into the deep groove of his scar. “Of course we’re fucked up.” He smiled, looking down onto Butch’s face. The concentration there, as Butch fucked into him, trying to stay level, trying not to come too soon. “Keep your eyes open,” Tate asked, sweetly as he could, but it never tasted quite right on his tongue. 

“And,” Butch exhaled, “Does it matter?”

Butch’s hand wrapped around his cock, hurried strokes, faster than Tate’s languid pace. Liked the variation, liked a lot of things. Liked Butch's light eyes, dark hair and pale skin. Liked better that he was always there. Always trusted him. Called him Nosebleed and held the bridge of his nose when it actually bled.

“Always matters.” Now Tate was having trouble keeping his eyes open, between the assault on his cock and his ass. The way he was getting all overstimulated, curling hot in his abdomen, radiating out from there. “Never matters.”

\--

Arcade sat outside in the noon sun, sorted through his pack, counted how many bandages, how many stims. Too few of them had been used for the number of injuries they took. Cass had come for a couple, large gash across her right arm, cutting from shoulder to halfway down her tricep. It would mend in time. Lily had pat him on the back, said she was thick-skinned enough, Jimmy shouldn’t worry himself. Boone had never been close enough to take a scratch.

Butch came out of the tent, his leather pants hanging low on his hips and without a shirt. Bite marks littered his neck. They’d been...loud, that was for certain. Arcade kept his eyes straight ahead, looking out on the empty camp. 

“Hey, man,” Butch was smiling. “Sorry we couldn’t have told your more about the plan. But we couldn’t have the Legion knowing. Had to make Caesar believe Tate’d actually turn on me. Had to give him a reason to turn, you know?”

There were dozens of questions at the back of Arcade’s throat. If there had ever been something actually between him and Butch. None of those questions should have bothered him as much as they did. Because Butch was a punk-ass kid from the east who happened to have nice eyes. It wasn’t anything more than that.

Still, Arcade felt the fool as Butch put his hand on his thigh before standing. Butch put out his cigarette under his boot, turned tail and headed back to the tent where Tate waited. 

Arcade swallowed the stones rather than verbalize a single one.


	12. Last Toll (Gen, Lily POV)

Jimmy is a good boy.

When Jimmy first comes to Jacobstown, his black hair is short and neat. He has a fleshy scar, a little puffy, on the side of his head. Before too long it will be hidden under thick, dark hair, greased with pomade. Lily wonders how he got that scar, because he looks too young and sweet to have been fighting. Jimmy isn't afraid of Lily, neither is Jimmy's friend, the blond one who doesn't carry a gun. Lily likes Jimmy's friend too. But he really ought to carry a gun. The Wasteland is dangerous. 

They talk to Doctor Henry while Lily tends to her garden. The handle on her spade is broken, she has to stoop over to make it work. 

When the sun is nearly down, Jimmy and Jimmy's friend come around to see her. They call her Lily at first and Grandma later. She knows they aren't her grandsons. She knows that much. And they aren't brothers either. Jimmy has blue eyes, and his friend brown. They climb up onto the timber fence around her garden and hold hands, their fingers lace together against the wood. They ask her about her life. She tells them what she can, and tries to smile when she can't remember. Long ago she gave up on frustration.

Jimmy's friend asks if she likes the stealth boys while Jimmy smokes. She turns up her nose at his dirty habit. Sheepishly, Jimmy walks away, but doesn't put out his cigarette. Well, it certainly isn't on her account she wants him to stop, but on his own.

She can't lie, she likes the stealth boys, likes the way they feel creeping through her veins and the aftertaste in her mouth. The other nightkin call her delusional, they can't taste the stealth boys, that's not how they work. But to Lily, her mouth always feels full of the most delicious raw cake batter, heavy and sweet.

Jimmy's friend smiles, showing perfect rows of white teeth. Hers used to look like that. And she remembers something else heavy and sweet in a moment of lucidity. The woman she used to be creeps up to the surface. She was pretty, wrinkled with age, fine-boned with skin the color of storm clouds warmed by the setting sun. But she didn't know because she hadn't seen the sky with her own two eyes before she was changed into this. "Oh, child, what number?"

"One-oh-one," Jimmy's friend says. He's heard the question before. Lots of times. But his answer is so strained she wants to bundle him up in her arms, hold him close so the Wastes can't get to him. But it's too late. At least they didn't share her fate, ripped up from the underground like crops at harvest. Perhaps this is the life they wanted. 

When Jimmy comes back, he has a heavy spade with a long, unbroken handle over his shoulder. He says he found it just down the road, one of the abandoned farmsteads. Only then does Lily realize she's been talking to Jimmy's friend for over an hour. He gives her the spade, taking the broken one from her hands.

Jimmy's friend rocks back until he nearly topples backwards over the fence, but he catches himself just in time. Jimmy asks if Lily wants to help them-help Doctor Henry-help her. They're good boys. She says yes.

They make their way up to the cave. The sun is gone but Lily can see as good as ever. The boys hold hands until they reach the entrance. Even though Jimmy has a gun, a big old laser rifle, he throws it over his shoulder and takes out a switchblade instead.

Inside the cave is dark. Little feet patter against the floor. Four feet at a time, not two. So it doesn't remind Lily of her grandson, Jimmy. Not this Jimmy, in his leather armor, whose name is really Butch. But her real one. She hopes Jimmy is dead, she hopes Jimmy is not like her.

They cut their way through the glowy night stalkers. Night stalkers aren’t meant to glow. When they find the dead nightkin, all ripped to ribbons, Jimmy rifles through the corpse while Jimmy's friend stands guard. On her knuckles she's got blood and guts. As it cools and cakes it makes her wounds feel better. Jimmy's friend uses his fists too, but he's too small. He shouldn't. He should get a gun.

Jimmy curses when he finds the chewed up stealth boy. Lily could have told him that's why they glowed. She'd chew on it too, the way it tastes like almost-cake.

\--

Jimmy asks Lily if she would like to come with them, at least for awhile. They have a place to stay, and enough food and everything. They'd like for her to come. Damn, can she fight too! It makes Lily feel good to be useful, because she can't bake anymore. Her hands don't listen right, she always gets the measurements wrong. But her hands could rip a man in two. She can do that.

Along the road to the Strip, Jimmy's friend asks if she needs a stealth boy. Who is she to refuse such an offer? He straps it on himself, smiling as he does. Neither Jimmy, nor Jimmy's friend scold her when she speaks of its sweetness. 

Shimmering out of the realm of the visible, Lily nearly shrieks with delight.

\--

Not-Butch’s-friends at the Tops tell Butch that Lily isn't allowed inside. Going back to his cigarette and his beer, Jimmy reminds them who is in charge now. He twirls a chip between his fingers and asks Lily if she needs anything.

There isn't a single thing in this world she wants. Well, that is not true. Lily wants a great many things. She wants Butch to be safe because she couldn’t save Jimmy. She wants Tate to be safe because he makes Butch happy. She wants to be able to sit on the stool next to Butch while he plays cards and chide him about his smoking. He'll smile and say "Sure thing, Grandma," before going back to puffing. But she's too big, too clumsy, not right.

So she says, "that's alright, Jimmy," and rubs her big palm over his scalp. His hair has grown back now, thick and black. It feels nice against her callouses. It keeps Butch's scar hidden so he's just glossy hair and white teeth. 

When she goes to leave, she knocks over one of those delicate stools, with the metal legs and a vinyl seat that makes squeaking noises when you shift your butt. The sound of it hitting the floor isn't as satisfying as she would have liked.

\--

Tate's crying, sobbing into his hands at the side of the bed he shares with Butch.

Looking up, Tate asks her how old she is, when she was born? She has to think good and hard before it comes like a sharp shock. 2079. Born in the vault, the first precious baby with umber skin and chocolate eyes. She was supposed to die there too, but she didn't.

Wiping at his nose with his shirt sleeve, Tate asks another question. "Do you miss it?"

When she was a girl, just eleven with her pip-boy and unclouded head, she hated that the others knew the sky, but she was an underground-child. So she knows what Tate is really asking.

She replies with a question, "Don't you love the stars?"

Breaking into a smile, Tate admits, yeah, yeah he does. They spend the rest of the evening lying on the bed, looking at the ceiling of the suite like it's bursting with constellations. Tate, through his sniffles, says he wishes he'd never given himself to anyone but Butch. Because sometimes he loves Butch so much he feels like he's going to puke. Lily rubs his back and babbles about flowers. She likes flowers too.

\--

The boys are going to fight Caesar's men. Not Caesar himself, who was turned into carrion weeks back. They'd let those poor, starving pups chew on his bones, sucking out the marrow, before the bloatflies could get a crack. But they're going to fight Caesar's men at the dam. They're going to take the dam and hold it, all because they are good boys.

Butch comes to give her the medicine Doctor Henry prescribes. The pills feel so tiny on her tongue. Tomorrow, they all need to be at their best, their very best. Butch puts another dose in her mouth. She doesn't protest.

Her head gets a little cloudy.

Jimmy tells her he'll be fine, but he's got that rifle on his back. “Stay here, Grandma, we'll be back.”

Jimmy's friend has tears in his eyes again. He hides them under big sunglasses. But he doesn't need them inside. His fists are taped up, white paper against his warmer skin. His hair is black now instead of blond. She doesn't want him to cry. She's crying too when the door to the suite latches behind them.

She tries to bake a cake, but she can't get the measurements right. And they don’t have sugar so she substitutes salt. She can’t remember why that’s wrong. It turns out like a brick, hard and dry. But she's put so much love for her boys into it. They'll come back. They will.

Days pass and Jimmy’s other friend comes back alone. The woman with copper hair and whiskey breath. Her eyes are raw, blood-shot. Lily asks her where her boys are. Where are they?

Cass tells Lily it’s time for her medicine.


	13. Find Us Something Better (Butch/Tate)

It ended like it started, with the sea.

But we have to go back. Not all the way to the beginning, but close. A second sort of beginning that started with the end of the world. 

Before the bombs fell, they drew numbers, and those numbers were attached to names. And those numbers and names meant that the DeLorias made it into Vault One-Oh-One. 

Standing outside, holding the bag of a world alight with radioactive flame, were the Zhangs. All just a matter of numbers and names.

Baby, baby, baby, baby, and then Butch. 27th of December 2257. He was a bald little squirt with cloudy blue eyes. His mama thought he was precious. His papa too. All underground children with their fingers and toes in the right places were precious. Some of the vault babies had started coming out broken. And so, when the Overseer asked in hushed whispers for volunteers to scout the surface, Papa DeLoria signed up. Anything for a better world. But the surface world was a brutal one. He didn't come home. Mama started drinking. Butch's eyes started to clear.

Baby, baby, baby, baby, and then Tate. 13th of July 2258. The first person he ever killed was his mother, though he didn't mean to. In a fit of panic, his father tossed aside the cards he was dealt. He bought a new deck, paid for with his working knowledge of anatomy and a silver tongue. The later was maybe the better skill to possess than the former. He took his baby boy with dark eyes and dark hair to the only vault where he'd ever seen the entrance. He broke his fingers against the seal, begging to be taken in. Anything for a better world. He brought Tate home. He became the vault doctor. Here they would be safe.

So that, in a way, was the beginning. But we were going to speak of the sea.

Tate found Butch because the vault was nothing but a claustrophobic game of hide and seek. They broke each other's noses. Tore at each other in anger. Then they started watching those dirty vids that Butch found on a wrecked terminal. Butch commented on the way the cheerleader's tits bounced when she got fucked. Meanwhile, Tate mused on how Butch's cock looked so perfectly swollen in his hand. How he wanted to hold it too. Wanted more than that.

The first time they kissed, Tate cut his lip along the ridge of Butch's teeth. He was so giddy that he broke one of his fingers too, smashing it against the metal vault wall behind his head when Butch pinned him there. All sloppy and terrifying and perfect. Because damn if Tate didn't want Butch all over him since the day he hit puberty.

They'd almost gone all the way too, in Tate's bed. They curled up together under the thin white sheet. Whispered a whole bunch of silliness between them. Most of all, how fucked up this all was. How the Overseer was gonna kill them. And Tate put his mouth at the shell of Butch's ear, filling it up with hot breath, "Fuck me."

When the door swung open without his dad knocking, Tate was filled with such unbridled rage he froze. Instead of screaming and destroying, he froze. His dad walked out, trying to catch his tongue before it got away for good.

Then, like Papa DeLoria before him, Father Zhang made a bet on the Wasteland and it cost him his life. It cost Tate his safety too, ripped him up from the vault like unripe harvest, because it's easier to brand someone a traitor than to listen to reason.

Tate had to kiss Butch goodbye surrounded by radroach corpses, Butch hated those things. Their guts clung to Tate's fists. He almost had the courage then to tell Butch then that he loved him, without conditions. Thing was, they were still precious children, really. They couldn't imagine the conditions yet to come.

There were security boots clanging against the metal floor, heading in their direction. So instead of telling Butch he loved him, Tate said, "Don't die, dickhead," and ran.

This wasn't what he wanted. To be outside. Tate would grow to love the stars, and the way the air moved with the wind. But Tate hated everything else about the Wasteland.

\--

Butch said he loved Tate. He didn't mention his mistakes. So Tate kept on making them. Right up to leaving for Point Lookout, leaving without Butch.

To get the tribals to trust him, he took the drug. Breathed it in, let it burrow into his fibers. At least this time he had a name for it: Mother Punga. It made him feel heavy, weighed down with the sins he couldn't forget anyway. He watched his mother die in agony. Only this time he was outside instead of in. But it wasn't not his mother, not really. Just some generic woman with the name pinned to her, "Catherine." He was more certain than ever before that he sprouted from his father's split head, fully formed, all his fingers and toes in place. Because he couldn't see a trace of this "Catherine" in him. Her dark skin, her full lips, her broad nose. 

In his delusion he saw Butch too, and Amata. Between them, holding on to her parents' hands, was that blue eyed girl Tate knew was still underground. She had black hair and warm, pale skin. Rosy-cheeked and perfect. Tate wanted to grab her up too. Tell her she should never be afraid. Because she was loved. So loved. Even if he and Butch never really got to meet her. She should know.

When he woke up, Tate knew he was different. Later, when he found the chunk of his brain Tobar took out of his skull, he considered chucking it into the water. He could watch it sink. Watch himself drown in this ocean instead of thinking about the Pacific. How many years since someone had seen both seas?

He tossed Burke's pulse charge instead. Because he had to let go of something.

After he got back, Butch said he wanted to be Tate's husband. Tate could finally admit he wanted that too. They went out to the Atlantic with rings they got from corpses. Tate held Butch's face and laughed as saltwater crashed against their legs, flew into their face. He put their lips together, mumbling that this was the first and the last of his duties as vault chaplain.

\--

Four years later, Tate stood at the edge of the Hoover Dam, a continent away. 2,448 miles. Something like that, according to his Pipboy. Butch stood at his side, matching rings stolen from Wasteland corpses on their fingers, a flag with a two headed bear at their back. Only because the Bull was garbage, unacceptable. Never. 

They hadn't even reached the New California Republic yet. Hell of a way to make an entrance. 

They'd stolen the power armor from the Brotherhood bunker. It'd been too easy to make their way inside. With their heads shoved in the dirt, none of those clever idiots even knew who they were. Lone Wanderer; Courier. Didn't know they'd killed one of their Scribes a couple months back in a panic. They'd buried her body in a hill, her hood hiding her face.

Tate put on the armor before they blew the place; Butch hacking through the computer systems. It had never occurred to the Elder that an outsider would know how to wear it. That a bunch of fucking Wasters would know how to get into their computers. They underestimated the abilities of strangers. Poor move.

Now that they were here, ready to face down Legion, Tate felt sick. He considered the logistics of puking into his helmet. But Butch was there to rub his back, though he couldn't feel it through the steel.

"You don't have to do this, Nosebleed."

"You know I do. I'm the only one who can."

Butch kissed him, fierce and sweet, before taking the helmet away from him. "You don't have to."

"Gimme the backpack," Tate insisted. 

The pack was full of chems: med-x, jet, buffout, hydra, mentats. Stuff they had just been holding onto for months, preparing for this. Tate slid off one of his gauntlets to expose his arm, took a bottle of water too, to wash down the pills.

"What the fuck are you two doing?" Arcade stepped up behind them, looking into the incriminating pack. 

Butch grabbed a canister of jet and a pack of mentats. The rest wouldn't help him. "I think you know, Gannon."

Tate had already pulled the cap off a med-x syringe with his teeth. "We're going to win this fucking war for all of you too chicken-shit to do it yourselves." He stabbed himself in the arm.

Arcade took a step back. "Butch, you can't."

"Can't what? Don't pretend like you don't know I have a problem. You know I can't see this out without the jet." He shook the inhaler in one hand. "If you cared, you would have said something weeks ago."

"I-" Arcade came up with nothing. There was nothing to say.

"Just keep Cass on her feet. Boone is gonna stay out of range. The Legion ain't got guns. And Tate's not gonna feel anything inside of his tin can. Just do your job, Gannon."

Arcade kept quiet.

Tate took two buffout while the hydra dripped. His body felt like lightened lead. Thick and solid, but weightless. Like some indestructible polymer no one had yet invented. It would be okay. It was just this once. He knew the names of everything he took, all the doses. And they had a pack full of Fixer too, back at the 38. Lily would watch the suite and bake some awful cookies and they would laugh and tell grandma it was all okay while the chems leeched back out of Tate's blood. Boy, would be nice to be home.

Butch helped him get the gauntlet back on because Tate's fingers didn't work right anymore. His fists would work, though. 

"I love you."

He just had to hear it again.

"I love you too," Butch smiled.

Once Tate's helmet was secure, they had to move quickly. The NCR troops were already engaged, trying to cut a path to Lanius for the Courier. Butch strapped his combat helmet on too, held his laser rifle in both hands.

They left Arcade behind. He'd wait on Cass to pick on the pockets she felt appropriate. He couldn't save them. He never stood a chance.

\--

Tate had stood in Lanius' shadow before. Back in Arizona, the man with two faces. Through the haze of chems and adrenaline, Tate told himself he could do this. He could punch down a man that was a foot taller than him, like a hundred pounds heavier. Tate had this steel suit on his bones and veins full of sciences the Legion long ago rejected. He would reject the Legion, like he had rejected the Brotherhood before them. He would eat up their causes and their beliefs, spit them back out in their faces.

Tate lashed out with all the precision he had learned.

He felt the breaking of his bones as Lanius snapped through one gauntlet, breaking it at the joint. He felt the blood in his mouth as the giant smashed down Tate's helmet. He felt the dying all around him as he fought back, cracking open Lanius' ribcage, stomping on his heart as he went down. Because while Tate felt the wreckage that was his body, he didn't care. He didn't care, he didn't care! But Lanius couldn't keep breathing when his lungs tore like paper against Tate's metal boots.

Tate was splattered with blood, inside and out, filling up his prison as it leaked out of his body. Maybe this was how he drowned. He collapsed next to Lanius. With the circuitry in the helmet crushed, he couldn't hear outside, just the pounding of his own heart. He watched the HUD flicker out, just as the green tic that must have been Butch ran towards him. Tate didn't know which way was up.

Butch tore the gauntlet from Tate's uninjured arm and started smashing stimpaks in. Three or four before he thought to take off Tate's helmet.

He babbled as he worked.

"I know it works best when you apply it to the part that's hurt but like, oh, fuck, Tate, I don't know about that arm. What will happen if I take off the gauntlet? Fuck. Fuck!"

Butch put another stim in Tate's neck.

"There's so much blood, Tate, fuck, fuck." His hands were shaking as he kept shooting Tate up. "You told me no med-x, but come on, Tate, tell me if it hurts?

Tate groaned, lolling his head to one side, "can't feel." But he could see his blood in the dust.

"Okay, okay, okay." Butch bit at his lips. "I gotta, I gotta make sure Lanius is dead, okay? I'll be right back?"

Tate didn't have the strength to respond.

He heard the laser rifle went off, twenty or twenty five times. Butch emptied his whole clip into the corpse. Must have been shooting ash by the end.

"Tate," Butch curled up next to him in the dirt. "Your arm, Tate."

"It's okay, remember, remember that time you got shot in the head? You lost your hair."

Butch started laughing until he switched to screaming.

\--

Tate spent four weeks in the makeshift NCR hospital for the wounded, the dying, and the dead. They had to saw him out of the power armor, circuits breaking loose like veins. They'd used an IV of Fixer to keep him from spasming through the withdrawal.

His arm looked like shredded Brahmin meat, raw and red and unsalvageable. Butch looked like he was gonna puke as he cut through Tate's finger with the bone saw to get the ring off. It was too swollen to come loose any other way. And he didn't want the doctors to do it either. Tate said it was okay, he couldn't feel it. Not through the med-x.

Butch's hands came away bloody, sliding the ring off the opposite way it went on. Then he turned around to vomit in the dirt. He mumbled apologies to the doctors.

While the doctors cut off the arm, all the way to Tate's shoulder, Butch held his other hand between both of his. This wasn't the worst thing that could happen. 

After that, it was just monitoring, making sure infection didn't take hold. Tate thought maybe the NCR was just trying to keep tabs on them, best they could manage. But they couldn't keep them forever, not without reason. Butch gave Tate his ring back, on a cord to wear around his neck. 

\--

When they got back to the 38, the suite smelled like cake. Cass stood next to Lily in the kitchen, licking white frosting from the spatula while Lily cooed reprimands. When the nighkin saw them, she called them both Jimmy, hugged Butch tight, said Tate looked different, but she didn't know how.

They ate the whole cake between the four of them. It sat heavy in Tate's stomach, but he liked it. 

\--

"Butch?" Tate curled his toes inside his socks. All of those were still in place. 

"Yeah, Tate?"

They hadn't fucked since before the dam.

"I need you."

More explanation than that was unnecessary. Butch helped Tate out of his shirt, trying not to stare at the mass of white and pink scar tissue at his shoulder.

"It's okay, Tate breathed, "as long as you can still bear to look at me."

"You're still the fucking hottest piece of ass I've ever seen, Tate."

Tate laughed at that. They weren't nineteen anymore. And they weren't as perfect as when they were protected, all their fingers and toes in place, the hope of humanity, those vault children, but they turned out okay.

Tate laid on his back, because it was easier to manage. It was still a little odd sometimes, learning to balance his weight with the arm missing, reaching for shit he couldn’t touch. But he used his right arm to wrap around Butch's shoulders and hold him close as he rolled his cock into him. Tate kissed at Butch's jaw, his lips, his throat. Felt the swell of his cock inside him, the slap of his hips against his own.

Hot, sticky, with tremors and hope, Tate came across their stomachs. Butch swallowed up his moans. With one hand he grabbed at the cord around Tate's neck with whispers of "mine, mine, always mine."

Afterwards, they laid together, staring at the ceiling like it was full of uncharted stars. They resolved that this time, finally, they would reach the Pacific.

\--

Lily packed them lunch. Neither bothered to explain that it would take more than that to feed them to the coast. Neither had the heart to tell her this was goodbye, either. Cass kicked up at the sidewalk and promised grandma would be okay with her. The NCR was giving her a real cushy job. And the 38 offered plenty of space. They just needed to find some more Jimmys to help Lily get around, so she wouldn't be so lonely while Cass was 'working.'

Butch joked that Swank would probably be plenty happy to give Cass a hand, or something else. She rolled her eyes and said, "you boys think you know a lot more than you do."

Tate shrugged, because he never really knew anything.

\--

Two hundred years. That was the last time someone saw the two seas in one lifetime. Atlantic. Pacific.

Tate and Butch stood with their feet in the sand, pieces of shell sweeping between their toes with the current. Tate drank a handful of saltwater even though he knew you weren't supposed to do that. He had to know if it tasted the same. It didn't. Somehow, that was amazing in and of itself.

"Is it everything you thought?" Butch asked.

"More."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned a much longer ending, but was struggling so much with it. I think, in a way, this ending is prettier. That being said, I'll be posting about 6k of that originally intended ending to the "Fragments" story that follows this in the series. This is the end of the plot content for these two, but I'm open to taking short prompts with Tate (or other characters too) over on my [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com). Fills will be posted to the "Fragments" story as well, if you want to follow that.
> 
> Thanks for all your support, everyone. Really. This has been one of my best fandom experiences ever. I love these idiots.


End file.
